Inquisitor Carrow and the Vigilantes Vague
by littlewhitecat
Summary: There is only one possible explanation, the God-Emperor had decided to test his faith and his resolve. Why else was his life the mess it currently was. No matter, he will prevail to smite the enemies of Humanity once more.
1. Chapter 1

Inquisitor Carrow and the Vigilantes Vague

Chapter 1

Carrow glowered down at the offensive little man who was currently bunkered behind the large and ugly mahogany desk of his office. How in the God-Emperor's name had he managed to get into this situation, and with Cornelius Fudge, of all people?

"…got disembowelled only a month ago," the pitiful meat-sack whined in his annoying little voice, "it's quite remarkable that you're actually alive, not forgetting being upright and walking around, but your Healer still hasn't cleared you. The rules are very clear in case such as this, Allesandor. Until your healer has filled in the relevant paperwork stating your return to full health, you can't be reinstated. I'm sorry, Allesandor, but that's the rules." Fudge shrugged unapologetically, ignoring Carrow's paint-blistering glare.

"Really, don't complain, Allesandor, you should just take the rest of the sick leave, because frankly it's a miracle you're still with us…but what if there's still some unforeseen complication that the healers haven't spotted yet…"

Complication? Carrow looked at Fudge in puzzlement; what was the idiot blithering about? If there had been some sort of unforeseen issue with his injuries, then he'd be dead by now. He was sure that all Healer Slaughter had had to do was stuff his guts back in and stitch him up. Nothing too serious at all.

"…my Great-Uncle Barnabas had this funny little cough, and he refused to take it to the healers." Fudge poked one pudgy finger in the air to emphasise his point. "Not only did it not go away, it _got worse_. Turned out he'd got a nasty case of Elmphysema, and ended up with a tree growing out of his throat, and that was the end of him!"

Would anybody notice if he just snapped Fudge's neck? If he propped him up carefully enough, it was likely nobody would notice the difference for days, probably at the point when the smell became too much for the average normal person. They really had no stamina.

"…had an idea," Fudge beamed manically at him, "we all know how easily you get bored!" He laughed uneasily.

Carrow fumed in outrage. He did _not_ get bored. Astartes did not get bored. They were models of stoicism and self-discipline…what if he swiped some haddock or something from the kitchen and stuck it behind the drawers on Fudge's desk? The idiot wouldn't notice for absolutely ages…

"…fantastic opportunity for you. I understand you were a rather popular teacher with a large segment of the student population, so I'm sure they'll be absolutely delighted to see you back as the Defence teacher…"

" _What?!_ " Carrow stared at the Minister who was now quivering behind his desk like a terrified deer. With what looked like an act of super-human will, Fudge pulled himself together.

"Exactly, Allesandor, Dumbledore has been struggling to find a new Defence teacher for this coming school year, and since you're _available,_ and already have experience in the position…well, he could hardly turn you down, could he?"

Carrow stared; he could actually see the logic there, worryingly enough.

"See, I knew you would see the sense in this," Fudge smiled brightly at him, "and while you are there," he leaned forward as much as his rotund stomach would allow, "I need you to _inspect_ the school, look at how it's run, at the staff's activities… _all_ of them, especially Dumbledore. I don't know…he's talking to people, making new contacts with people like Narcissa Malfoy of all things...what if it's some sort of drive for power…" He faded off, staring anxiously into the distance. "Would...would you do that for me, please?"

Raising an eyebrow, Carrow sighed at the incompetence of the man. "Really, Cornelius. I can assure you that Albus Dumbledore is currently far too busy to be plotting against you."

"Please, Allesandor," Fudge begged pathetically. And he'd been doing so well up to this point too.

"Have you tried bribing him?" Carrow asked, more than a little exasperated.

Fudge stared, his train of thought temporarily derailed. "Erm…what…I, well…"

Sighing heavily, Carrow shook his head sadly. Fudge would be eaten alive in the Imperium, probably for mild entertainment. "You can bribe a man with more than coin. You just need to _understand_ them, what makes them tick as it were."

This apparently did not help ease Fudge's thought processes in the slightest, so Carrow turned to the annoying idiot's proposal, ignoring his pathetic twittering. An inspection and analysis of the inner workings of the School. It was probably a more suitable task for a paper-pusher, but it certainly fit within his duties. Carrow considered the undertaking for a moment; this could actually work rather nicely in his favour. He could leave Timothy where he was, currently gaining valuable experience of the inner workings of the local political system. In the meantime, he would take on the role of Defence Professor once more, which, while hardly the most taxing of duties would also give him ample opportunity to assess the qualities and abilities of those in their last year, prime recruitment material.

It would also leave him free to investigate the possible corruption within the Department of Muggle Relations that he had been saving for a rainy day. If he was "lucky", it might just be some greedy idiots with their fingers in the departmental budget, in which case he'd gladly expose them to public scrutiny…but he had a feeling that there was a little bit more to it than that…

"I will do this," he announced to a delighted Fudge.

"Excellent, excellent," the Minister burbled as he happily bounced in his chair.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

How had he got himself roped into this? Timothy sighed heavily as he dragged his wardrobe doors open. It wasn't as if he was particularly good friends with Steve, finding him to be an utter and complete twit…and a ruddy bore, but when he told Mum he wasn't going, she'd given him a lecture that had left his ears ringing. Apparently it was unfriendly and unsupportive not to go to his cousin's wedding, whether he knew him that well or not.

"…besides, Tiffany and Tyler will be there, so we're going to need you to fix anything if they have a little accident with their magic, or just generally misbehave with it. My side of the family might be understanding about the carpet suddenly changing colours, but your father's side won't be…"

So that was that. With a tired sigh, he reached for the suit he'd had made in Knockturn. It looked old fashioned, but it was certainly smart and would do the trick, despite (according to Tiffany and Felix) making him look like an Edwardian gangster.

Except it wasn't there. Timothy desperately tried to blink the tiredness from his eyes. _Blast it_. This was bound be Carrow's handiwork; he frantically flipped through the meagre offerings of his wardrobe, his everyday dolman, currently very battered and on the verge of becoming his "mission" outfit, body-glove (absolutely _not_ , especially not when people like Marvin Pratt were going to be there), robe, robe, fatigues, all in threadbare state, but he hadn't had the time to get to the Army Surplus place in town recently, or anywhere else for that matter. Tucked at the back behind his second best great-coat were two unfamiliar hanging traveling garment cases of the sort used for good suits. One of them had a note pinned to it demanding "Wear Me" in Carrow's unmistakable and rather ugly handwriting.

Grinding his teeth in suppressed rage and frustration, Timothy pulled the covered garments out, hanging them on the wardrobe door while he decided what to do. Should he take a terrifying leap into the unknown, and have a look at what Carrow thought bettered the everyday dolman, or should he just go in his underwear? Heaven knows it would be less humiliating than whatever militaristic baroque monstrosity the Giant Lump was trying to foist on him.

He slumped down into his bedroom chair, face buried in his hands. Maybe a cigarette would calm his nerves, he thought, as he absently rubbed at the scars where his right eye used to be. The doctors and Healers all claimed that it was about as healed as it was going to get, but it still ached, especially in cold weather. A couple of air-freshening charms and the English Heritage loonies wouldn't even know what he'd been up to. The black Russian was a soothing presence as he took a drag, breathing smoke from his nose. Maybe he should just take a look at the bound-to-be-dreadful outfit.

A few minutes later, and his worst fears were confirmed. How the hell was he supposed to be seen near normal people wearing _that_? He stared at the awful, but beautifully made, garments in resigned horror. Time was getting on as well; he checked his watch. He only had a couple of hours before he absolutely had to leave.

Stuff this, he was just going to wear his everyday dolman and look like his usual everyday sort of plank self.

"You can't wear that," Carrow's voice boomed from the bedroom door as he pulled the threadbare garment from his wardrobe.

Timothy snarled in rage. "Well, _I'm_ not wearing _that_ ," he jabbed an accusing finger at the offensive outfit, "if you think for _ten seconds_ that I'm going to my cousin's _wedding_ looking like a B–movie space Nazi, who's smoked a bad mushroom, you've got another thing coming! So give me back my suit, my nice normal _boring_ suit!"

Carrow gave him a look of polite puzzlement as he stalked forward, his leather cassock swirling elegantly around his ankles. Behind him Artemis lounged in the doorway, delicately sniffing the edge of the carpet, her latest coir rope toy abandoned by her feet.

Plucking the everyday dolman from Timothy's unresisting fingers, he placed it carefully back into the wardrobe. "No. You will wear this outfit, Timothy." Carrow smiled down at him like a sated shark as he loomed over him. "When you go out in public, _Interrogator_ Faulks, you represent me, and the Inquisition, and the Imperium of Man…such as it is. You are a servant of the living God-Emperor himself. Therefore, you have to look the part."

Timothy glared up at him, teeth practically biting through his cigarette. "You don't do this to the Vampires," he hissed, determined to hold his ground over his own clothes, just this once.

"That would be because the Coven aren't my apprentices," Carrow explained, "plus they have better dress sense that you do. Honestly, if I didn't intervene all the time, you'd end up looking like a younger version of that Bernard character."

Reeling back, utterly offended, Timothy fumed in outrage. Never in his entire life had he ever stooped so low as to wear black socks with tan sandals- though that jumper he'd spied Bernard in a couple of days ago hadn't been too bad…

"But that's not the point," he snarled in frustration, "my suit is perfectly acceptable for a wedding. It's smart, formal and completely appropriate for the occasion. _This_ …this is…" he glared at the offending outfit at a complete loss for words.

"Is also smart and extremely formal," Carrow supplied for him, "and also marks you out as a servant of a higher power. They will be in awe of you."

Awe? Timothy blinked in disbelief. Of all the ridiculous, stupid…actually, he didn't have words to describe how he felt about this…this…"I'm not sure awe will be exactly what they will experience," he growled reaching again for his everyday dolman. Carrow gently kicked the door of the wardrobe shut, making the hefty piece of furniture rattle alarmingly. Standing in front of it, he brandished the still covered outfit, smirking down at Timothy in a manner he obviously thought was playful, or friendly even. Personally, it reminded Timothy of Artemis once when she'd spied rabbits in a field and had then managed to upset an entire troupe of Brownies by messily disembowelling one in front of them. He straightened his spine, tilting his head up aggressively as he glared at the giant controlling bully.

Completely unfazed, Carrow raised an eyebrow.

Growling, Timothy stormed forward, grabbing the offensive outfit out of Carrow's hands. "Fine," he snarled at the bemused giant, _"fine,_ " he snapped as he stomped into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him so hard it rattled in the doorframe.

He slumped down on the edge of the bath in utter defeat. Why couldn't he just say no to Carrow when it came to these things? He managed it with the running of Aquila Industries all the time, even with some of Carrow's more outlandish demands at the Ministry.

Slowly and miserably, he got dressed, briefly checking his appearance in the bathroom mirror. Yes, he looked utterly ridiculous. Jerking the bathroom door open, he found Carrow had laid out a brand new great-coat on his bed, along with his sword, his Browning and shoulder holster, a peaked cap with Carrow's Inquisitorial seal, a beautifully crisp silk sash in Ravenclaw colours (of course), and shiny knee-high boots. Really shiny patent, mirror-like, knee high boots. Timothy stared at them in horror. Oh, his humiliation was going to be complete. With a heavy heart he finished dressing, attempted to tame his hair, and put his eye-patch in place.

"Wonderful," he muttered as he examined his reflection in the wardrobe's full length mirror, "I look like a prize prat." He could just imagine people thinking it funny to tell him the D&D convention or whatever was "next week," hah hah.

"Don't forget your pistol," Carrow said.

Timothy rolled his eye. "Of course. If I want to get arrested. It's _illegal_ for me to carry a gun in public like that…plus I'm going to a wedding reception. Why would I need to be armed?"

This seemed to puzzle Carrow. "But you wouldn't be. It's only a small pistol, hardly counts at all really, plus you're not objecting to the sword. I'm failing to see the difference."

Sometimes…Timothy closed his eye in exasperation. "I can claim the sword is ceremonial, but the pistol? No, really just no." What sort of world had Carrow inhabited for a pistol to seem like a mere accessory? He knew it had been brutal, you just had to look at the man's power-armour to understand that…but still…

He turned, fully prepared to tell Carrow exactly what he thought about him and his awful dress-sense, only to spot Artemis trying to root around in his laundry basket. What was it with felines and grubby clothes?

"Drop that sock," he roared, " _naughty Artemis,_ leave the sock!"

oOo

"Are you sure there are any deer left?" Ron asked as he glanced round at the surrounding trees and shrubby growth, scratching idly at the camo-paint he'd liberally applied to his face. "I'd have thought Artemis would have nabbed them all by now."

"It's worth a check," Neville said as he transformed back from a bear, "there's something fairly fresh on that tree there. I think it's wee, might be a dog."

"Yuck," Ron muttered as he adjusted his recurve bow. Somehow Hermione had blagged the powerful weapons out of Carrow, specifically for their use this summer. It was certainly making things more interesting. Definitely superior to the spears and other badly maintained weapons that they had had to get by with at Hogwarts. Maybe, if Hermione did the talking, Carrow would loan them out to the DC for next year.

"Right," Hermione said to herself as she pulled her hand drawn map of the wood, "we're about here. Greg and the others have gone along this route…so if we go this way…"

Ron stared in the direction she'd pointed, it all looked the same to him, full of trees and low slung branches and stinging nettles. Occasionally they'd come across an animal track through the undergrowth. Most of them, according to Neville's bearish sense of smell, were made by local cats, foxes, the odd badger, not many deer though, and that was what they were really after. "We'll find more nettles," he suggested.

Hermione rolled her eyes as she slowly stood and slunk forward into the bushes. Grinning, Neville followed her.

Well, fine. Ron glared after them, as long as they eventually bagged a deer. This wasn't a patch on hunting in the Forbidden Forest, they always came back with something interesting there…

oOo

The Hummer came to a growling halt in the car park, and Timothy took a moment to compose himself for the nightmare ahead. Right now, fighting a Nundu with a pointy stick wearing nothing but his underpants was looking rather appealing.

"I don't know what you're worried about," Wulfric said cheerfully as he slipped his aviator glasses on, "it's only a wedding reception."

Timothy gave him his best imitation of one of Carrow's steel melting glares. "Oh, I don't know…" he snarled, "maybe the fact that I'm dressed like a complete and utter _prat_ , and I've brought a _man_ as my "plus one". That's just to begin with, you understand. I suppose Artemis destroying one of my favourite socks, only _one_ mind you, just counts as ordinary everyday annoyance."

Wulfric gave him a cheerful grin. "Honestly, Tim, I'm not your plus-one, I'm your body-guard. I cleared it with Carrow and everything. The last time I left you alone, you nearly got yourself killed." He shot Timothy a look of serious concern.

"I don't need a body-guard," Timothy ground his teeth in frustration as he wrenched the car door open, clambering down onto the wet gravel. "It's just a wedding reception; note the complete lack of marauding nundus and daemon hosts."

He slammed the door shut, looking around the car-park. Typically for a summer wedding, the day had begun with a torrential downpour. The sky, now a featureless and sullen grey from horizon to horizon, promised more of the same sometime very soon. It mirrored his mood rather nicely, Timothy thought, as he strode towards the venue (once a country house built somewhere around 1830, now a hotel), the overly cheerful werewolf trailing in his wake.

"It's only for invited guests, sir," the annoying member of staff in the foyer tried telling him, actually attempting to physically block his way. Timothy turned his best Carrow flattening glare on the slightly pudgy young man.

"I _am_ an invited guest," he hissed, brandishing his gold trimmed invitation in the shaking man's face, "and this is my plus-one." He gestured towards Wulfric who looked like he was having a nasty coughing fit. "Are we clear?" he snarled.

"Yes, sir," the youth squeaked diving behind his desk. Timothy ignored him as he strode through into the hall itself, gritting his teeth at the reception he was likely to receive.

He blinked in surprise. The room, which he was sure was normally extremely tasteful in a neutral hotel-y sort of way, was now bedecked with streamers and balloons in strident pink, cream and old gold. But it was mainly pink, a strange sticking plaster, fleshy sort of pink.

Even the floral displays on the scattering of cream covered tables were overwhelmingly fleshy pink. It was rather unsettling and bizarrely unnatural. He eyed the floral arch that loomed behind the bride and groom who were now eyeing him suspiciously. Should he be concerned? Were there malevolent forces at play seeping out into the environment he currently occupied?

He looked around again, trying not to appear too suspicious as he checked for any of the symbols or signs Carrow had explained at length were a sure indicator of foul unnatural forces at play. He couldn't see anything obvious…but still.

Wulfric poked him in the back. "You all right?" he asked in concern.

Timothy looked back at him a moment. "Maybe Carrow was right and I should have brought my Browning after all," he muttered.

Wulfric just shook his head in amused exasperation as he poked him forward.

"Timothy!"

Jerking round at the ear-splitting screech, Timothy was just in time to catch the human missile as Tiffany slammed into his side, heedless of her bridesmaid's dress which Timothy couldn't help but notice gave the poor girl the appearance of being eaten alive by some sort of pink flesh-eating sea creature. The effect was actually rather alarming.

"You're here!" she bounced happily. "Now I won't be bored." Grabbing his arm, she began to tow him away into the crowd of distant relatives and family friends whose names he could never quite remember, Wulfric strolling after them, whistling cheerfully.

"Erm…your dress looks nice?" he finally hazarded.

Tiffany gave him a sarcastic look over her shoulder.

"All right, maybe not; I take it you're being suitably bribed for the occasion" Timothy sighed.

"Oh yes," Tiffany grinned, "most satisfactory as Uncle Allesandor would say."

"It does look suspiciously like you're being consumed by a carnivorous deep-sea creature," he pointed out.

Tiffany sniggered as she dragged him round a push-chair full of fat screaming toddler. "It does, doesn't it? I'm not sure anyone likes them really. In fact some of the old bridesmaids are so traumatised…"

Timothy mentally adjusted his definition of old to include anyone over the age of eighteen.

"…by it they're hanging around the bar drinking wine like Mum does when Auntie Beryl visits at Christmas." She rolled her eyes expressively. "She didn't stay long last time cause Tyler _accidentally_ set her favourite coat on fire."

"Really?" Timothy raised an eyebrow unsurprised. If "Auntie Beryl" was anything like her boorish brother…

"Mum threw a bucket of water over it and screamed blue murder at Tyler, and Tyler bawled his eyes out and hid under the dining table and refused to come out, even when I tried bribing him with my bucket of jelly babies," Tiffany carried on cheerfully, "but Auntie Beryl left an entire day early, so it was actually quite a good Christmas really."

"Ah, well…" Timothy frowned, not quite sure what to say. "So, it turned out all right in the end then?"

"Yup," Tiffany said as she dragged him past some of the other younger bridesmaids.

" _Tiffany_ ," Trudi snapped, "I _told_ you not to wander off."

"Look, Mum," Tiffany grinned completely ignoring her Mum's glower, "I found Timothy!"

Timothy stiffened under Trudi's disapproving glare. "So you've turned up, have you," she sniffed, "you look like a right prize idiot…and so does your friend."

Which coming from Trudi Pratt, Timothy felt, was a bit rich, considering _her_ dress-sense. Take the fluorescent pink stretchy mini dress thing she had decided was appropriate for such an occasion; it even came with a matching little jacket. It really didn't help that her tan was darker than the dress, making it almost luminescent.

"Don't be horrible, Trudi," Mum sniffed disdainfully as she came over. Timothy looked at the thing perched on her carefully manicured hairstyle dubiously. Was that what they called a fascinator? It bore a striking resemblance to a very posh cat toy.

"Well, look at you," Mum sighed, as she adjusted the collar of his coat, "I see Allesandor got his hands on your wardrobe again. He does like things to be on the theatrical side, doesn't he?" She smiled up at him, giving his cheek an affectionate pat.

"Hi, Mum," Timothy muttered, as he gave her a peck on the cheek.

"And did you remember to send a donation to one of Steve and Kathy's favourite charities?"

"Well, yes, Mum," Timothy rolled his eye, "and I refrained from sending them flowers too, just as they asked on the invitation. I'm not a complete barbarian, you know."

"HEY TIMMY!"

Timothy swivelled on the spot to find Matthew bearing down on him with a huge grin, sporting his immaculate No. 2 dress uniform. He braced himself as his older brother threw his arms around him. "Look, the Inquisition is here," Matthew practically yelled in his ear.

"Shut up Mattie," Timothy hissed as he tried to push his older brother away.

"Nobody expects the Inquisition," Wulfric chimed in gleefully.

"And you can shut up too," Timothy snarled as he tried to wrestle his brother off, so he could give Wulfric a much deserved glare.

"Hey, and Mr Soft Autumn himself as well," Matthew smirked gleefully.

Wulfric chuckled nervously as he shook Matthew's hand over Timothy's shoulder.

"You can let me go now," Timothy growled, beginning to lose his patience. Instead of obeying, much to Timothy's indignation, Matthew held him at arm's length. "What the _hell_ happened to you?" he asked in concern, taking in the eye patch and the increased facial scarring.

Timothy batted away an exploratory hand in annoyance. "I'll tell you about it later," he growled. "Shouldn't we sit down? I think we're beginning to make a scene."

"Ah, erm…whoops," Matthew grinned nervously as he looked around.

"Idiot," Timothy muttered.

oOo

Ignoring the midges, Ron slunk through the undergrowth trying to minimise the crunch of old dead leaves under his heavy boots. They'd actually found what looked like deer tracks, pairs of almond shaped marks in the mud of a narrow path that wound through the undergrowth towards the river and a large willow tree that hung over the bank; it looked like that might be a favoured drinking spot.

So they had spread out among the trees, Neville reverting to a bear as he tried to get a scent of their quarry.

A rustling among the trees up ahead caught his attention. Relaxing against a tree he waited, it seemed far too large to be a badger, not to mention wrong time of day…not right for a fox either. Could this be?

Slowly he pulled an arrow from his quiver and put it to his bowstring. Gently breathing in he pulled it back to his ear…just a bit more…there…he released the shot…

oOo

"Unca…Unca Tim," Shaun happily proclaimed from his high chair across the table, waving his plastic fork wildly. Somehow the little tyke had managed to find some chocolate and now most of it was plastered around his mouth and down the front of his page-boy uniform and even in his hair.

"Seriously, what is with that eye patch?"

Who had been daft enough to think that sitting him next to Melvin Pratt was in any way a good idea? Timothy stabbed his steak with slightly more force than was strictly necessary. Could he help that he was imagining that it was the man's scraggly wrinkled over-tanned neck?

"…not believing for two seconds that you've actually lost an eye," Melvin carried on with a snort of disbelief, "I mean, please. It's just a silly little affectation like the rest of your outfit. You do know those poncey New-Romantics went out years ago," he laughed completely oblivious to the glares he was receiving from Mattie and Mum. "And where the crap did you get a leather coat with gold pretty patterns? Got it specially made at a bondage place, eh? Looks like a custom job, expensive on a toilet cleaner's budget…"

"Mum, what's bondage?" Tiffany hissed loudly.

"It was a gift from my employer, and for the last time I am a secretary. I haven't worked as a cleaner for years, thank the Go…humph," Timothy cleared his throat, his face stiffening. "He is very particular about how I present myself in public since I often represent him in an official capacity."

Melvin gave him a funny look. "Seriously? What a load of old cobblers, I bet he's just some old perve…"

Timothy ground his teeth, wishing Melvin would spontaneously combust. Where was accidental magic when you needed it? Then he'd be able to claim no knowledge.

"Oh, and as for the eye…" he sneered at Melvin reaching up for his eye patch, "well…it's as you see…"

Melvin's fork dropped onto his plate with a clatter as his face turned a funny putty colour underneath all the fake tan.

"Cool!" Tiffany loudly proclaimed.

oOo

The scream that tore through the wood was most definitely _not_ from a deer, in fact it sounded rather like…he sprinted forward through the undergrowth. Had he accidently shot a dog-walker? The trouble he'd be in if he had.

Crashing through a whippy stringy bush covered with funny white berries he skidded to a halt at the sight of Colin Creevey lying on his front, trousers around his ankles, hands clutching his backside from which protruded the arrow. A loo roll lay not far away from where it had rolled.

Oh no, he was so dead. Hermione was going to kill him and then Mum was going to resurrect him just she could kill him all over again and then…

Neville-the-Grizzly burst through the bushes stumbling to a halt, gaping in a very un-bear like way as he took in Colin's plight. The others arrived not long after.

"Oh dear," Greg said as he took in the scene, "someone needs to read up on identifying wildlife, I think."

"So, who needs glasses?" Millie asked as she examined Colin's injury. "Hmm. I think we're best to leave this alone. Sorry, Colin, but you need to see Healer Slaughter."

Ron winced as Colin whimpered. "I was only going to the toilet," the smaller boy sobbed, "I dropped my loo roll and everything."

"I think," Millie said, poking his injured buttock, "that your loo roll is the least of your worries at the moment."

Feeling guilty Ron picked the loo roll up, trying to brush the dead leaves and mud off as best he could. If only he was allowed to use his wand, he'd be able to fix the sorry object up no problem.

"It was you, wasn't it?" Greg suddenly burst out with a barely contained laugh.

"Wha?" Ron squawked, face flushing brilliant red, "I mean…yes. I'm…I am so sorry, Colin…I…just…"

"Look on the bright side, we get to practice improvising stretchers," Hermione pointed out.

oOo

At least the rain had eased off a little, Timothy thought miserably as he took a drag of his Black Russian, so something was going right today. Sure, he might had managed to get one over on Melvin Bloody Pratt, but he had a feeling Trudi was going to make him smart for it later,

The sooner he was away from this place and back to the relative sanity of the Lodge…well, that was proof positive he'd finally cracked. The Lodge sane? What a joke.

If it wasn't the archaeologists trying to dig holes in seemingly random places, then it was the English Heritage people ganging up with the archivists and causing trouble. Last week when they'd discovered Charlus Potter's correspondence with Andre Breton had been hellish. If only he hadn't had the bright idea that the Lodge could be a humanizing thing to make Carrow more palatable to the general public.

Only just last week Bernard had yet again got himself lost as he explored the underground complex that was still in the process of being built. What Carrow thought he needed it for was…actually, considering what he knew about the man, he really didn't want to consider what Carrow thought he was going to need a veritable underground city for.

Anyway, Bernard had got lost, yet again, this time complete with camping gear, tent, sleeping bag, stove, everything he would need for nearly a week's exploration. When he had eventually caught up with him, the man had been having an impromptu barbecue with some of the Dwarven excavators. Turned out Bernard was a keen amateur geologist, which had gone down really well with the Dwarves.

Plus there was the continuing saga of the (according to the archaeologists) Saxon village, but which according to the gardeners was their yard and collection of outbuildings, storage and offices, which they were determined to defend against hole-digging loonies at all costs. The ongoing negotiations were long winded and tedious as both parties nitpicked at each others' suggestions.

Just to put the tin lid on everything the archivist, a retired librarian, a meticulous and exacting sort of lady, had had to be let in on the existence of magic due to the nature of the records she was organising. That had not gone well- and then she'd got into a physical fight with one of the archaeology team who had accidentally misfiled some documents when doing some research about the Tudor part of the house. He hadn't realised it was possible to produce such awful bruises with just a rolled up newspaper.

A finger jabbed him hard in the cheek. Gasping for air, his heart pounding like an express train, Timothy whirled to find his big brother grinning at him.

"Damn it, Mattie, I nearly swallowed my cigarette," he complained.

Matthew shrugged, completely unrepentant. "Figured I'd found you out here. You know, Tiffany's rounded up some of the other kids so she can get them to re-enact some of your ah, adventures with various pilfered bits and pieces."

Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Timothy dug out another cigarette; it had just been one of those days. "It's all a load of exaggerated rot. Felix has one sleep-over, and Annie and Caroline choose it as a golden opportunity to fill their heads with tall tales."

Matthew snorted with laughter. "I've seen you in action, remember," he bumped their shoulders together, "you've got nothing to ashamed of."

Timothy huffed in annoyance.

"Though I don't remember you ever telling me anything about riding a dragon into battle," Matthew continued.

"For Throne's sake," Timothy muttered as he rolled his eyes, ignoring Matthew's laughter.

"Fine," Timothy sighed, "enough about me, imaginary or not. How have you been? We…I… _he_ , put you in an extremely difficult situation."

Matthew stared at him silently. "That's, erm…putting it mildly," he said eventually. "We were exonerated of any wrong doing…but we can't talk about it. To anyone. At all. Even you. Had to sign contracts to that effect even. So of course that means none of us can explain to the other lads what happened…so they're understandably suspicious of us."

His shoulders slumping in defeat, Timothy sighed. "I am so sorry, I…if only I hadn't…"

"Heh, what's done is done," Matthew said, "so, erm," he shifted nervously, "while we were in limbo me and the lads put our heads together and errr, made this," he pulled a folded wedge of paper from his pocket and thrust it into Timothy's hands.

Curious, he flattened it out to find a roughly stapled together pamphlet, its photocopied pages wonkily stapled together. " _Zombie Combat 101_ ," Timothy read with a small frown.

"Yeah, after that little _incident_ we decided to put down as much as possible about tactics and such. What worked, what didn't, things to be mindful of," Matthew shrugged, "just in case we run into anything strange again. Had quite the fight over the title though." He gave Timothy a small grin.

"Good idea," Timothy nodded, "mind if I keep this? If I can think of anything to add I'll let you know, add it into my letters and that."

Matthew's grin broadened. "That'd be great…"

The distinctive shouting of Trudi on the warpath broke out behind them, as she began to berate her offspring. Timothy couldn't hear much, but words like _fire…dragon…not allowed_ filtered outside. His heart dropping, he grabbed his brother's arm, and dragged him down the gravel path and round the corner to where a bedraggled rhododendron stood.

"Like Merlin I'm getting involved in _that_ ," he muttered under his breath as he stuffed the pamphlet into his sash (damn thing had to be good for something).

Matthew raised an eyebrow. "So…why? Never thought _Trudi_ needed much help when it came to child-wrangling."

"They're both magical."

"Ah, right," Matthew laughed, "and then Mum dragged you into it since you're the nearest wizard." He paused almost nervously. "So…how's the big guy?"

Timothy gave the question some thought. "A bit irritable at the moment. He's recovering from being partly disembowelled…"

"What?" Matthew stared at him shock.

"According to him, he's fine, but I've noticed his scars are still giving him some discomfort. I suspect the medical people from where he's from used to keep patients like him unconscious until they were fully healed," Timothy said, "just to keep the whining, sulking and generally immature behaviour to an absolute minimum…but he saved my life when he did it, threw himself between me and _it_. I…I'd already been injured…this daemon host…"

"Like what we fought?" Matthew asked with increasing concern.

"Not quite. We were, or _he_ was on the trail of a wanted magical criminal, but then it turned out this individual had resources that we were unaware of. Very dangerous resources that I doubt he even understood himself. It changed him and warped him until…literally out of nowhere, no warning, nothing…and went for me, took my eye out…" He shuddered at the memory. "And then…it's still really hard to talk about actually. The nightmares really aren't helping either. Does that make me a wimp?"

He jumped as Matthew slung an arm round his shoulders, pulling him close. "Seriously? No. But you might want to try talking to someone about it."

"Like a doctor? A psychiatrist?"

"Maybe," Matthew said slowly, "priests can be good too." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "So anyway, we got a new guy. Turns out he's a wizard, so he's now our unofficial battle-mage. Claims his speciality is Herbology, so we should be okay if we ever encounter any flesh-eating plants."

"A wizard," Timothy interrupted, "a muggleborn?"

"Probably," Matthew nodded, "he's being tight-lipped about it at the moment, but I've told him he's got to mug up about anything combat and creature related."

"Anybody I know?" Timothy asked.

"Naw. Doubt it. He's a bit younger than you…and a Hufflepuff too, I think." Matthew shook his head. "Seemed to be a bit reluctant about the whole battle-mage thing too, but then we explained about zombies to him as best we could, and he…"

"There you are!" Trudi marched round the corner in all her fluorescent pink glory, her heels scrunching in the gravel. "I've been bloody looking for you everywhere, _Timothy_. Are you going to come and fix this sodding mess up or what? Since your boyfriend isn't up to the task."

"Wulfric is _not_ my boyfriend," Timothy snapped, "he's acting as my body guard, assistant…"

"Whatever," Trudi rolled her eyes dismissively.

A guilty looking Tiffany leaned around her mother. "Tim, I err…I tried making the trim on one of the tables sparkle…" she scuffed a pink patent shoe in the gravel guiltily, "and erm…it went wrong."

Timothy growled to himself, his heart sinking at the possible size of the mess he was now facing. Tiffany stared up at him beseechingly. "I'm really, really sorry," she said, almost in tears.

"Looks like a job for the Inquisition," Matthew elbowed him in the ribs as they followed Trudi back inside.

"Shut up, Mattie," Timothy muttered back.

oOo

"I take it the wedding reception proceeded in an orderly fashion."

Timothy looked up startled to find himself almost nose to chest with Carrow's latest attempt at a casual robe. It looked more like the sort of garment a High Priest of very dark gods would wear on his day off, the Purgatus of St Seraphim not helping matters as it slipped past his gaze, its runes glinting in the weak sunshine that poured in through the front doors of the Lodge.

"It was acceptable," Timothy conceded. Carrow smirked down at him. Giving the large man a dubious look, he tried to step round him only to find his path still blocked by a smirking Carrow.

"What?" Timothy snapped in exasperation. Today had been far too long and far too full of really annoying people. Right now, what he longed for was a sit down preferably with a nice big mug of tea.

"I have never been to a wedding reception," Carrow said, his head slightly tilted, "it is not something someone such as I myself generally receives invitations to, what with my social standing being as it is. I have always wondered, though…"

"I highly doubt you had the time for such things before," Timothy began.

"Such a pity I wasn't invited," Carrow carried on, "after all, I am practically a member of your family…"

Timothy choked back a cough. Obviously the Lump wasn't going to let this one go, so to distract the man, he pulled the zombie pamphlet from his sash. "Here, have a look at this."

Carrow looked down at the cobbled together thing, a puzzled frown on his face.

"Erm, sirs?"

Weasley had such excellent timing, Timothy thought, seeing a wonderful avenue of escape.

"Ah, Percival," Carrow turned still with that creepy little smile, "is young Colin more comfortable now?"

"What?" Timothy snarled, heart dropping. What had gone on while he'd been away?

Percy winced, and edged away slightly. "Yes, ah, Healer Slaughter managed to successfully remove the arrow from Mr Creevey's behind…ah…the only problem is, erm, Mrs Creevey. Of course we had to inform her that her son had been injured…"

"What's gone on?" Timothy stalked forward, ignoring Percy's quivering. "You let them have weapons, didn't you?" He turned on Carrow. "Unsupervised! _Didn't you_?"

"Only recurve bows," Carrow shrugged, a little crease of a frown appearing between his brows as he tried to work out why his apprentice was so upset. "I didn't allow them to take the Cadias out hunting, because, as you implied this morning, their presence would cause difficulties with the local Arbites."

Timothy struggled to get his temper back under control; obviously the Giant Lump felt he'd been exceedingly responsible and thoughtful while completely forgetting that these were _children_ he was dealing with.

"At their age," Carrow said, "I was an Aspirant of the Charnel Guard, had fought in a major campaign, and had already undergone the beginnings of my transformation to Astartes."

"Er, Sirs," Percy desperately interrupted, "Mrs Creevy is coming here to retrieve her son, _in person_ …erm, I just thought you should know."

"You're dealing with her," Timothy snapped at Carrow as he strode up the stairs, "you were stupid enough to give them the bows, so you get to clean up the mess."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The Chapel was dark as he slipped round the door, his entrance causing a rustle of movement and whispers among the multitude of wall-paintings as they noted his presence. The God-Emperor of Mankind crept carefully past the skull racks, ignoring their occupants' blank eyed stares. He paused in front of the main altar, the heroic depiction of himself slaying a daemon towering up behind it, the gold of his armour glinting in the dim light of a row of votive candles.

It was, in his opinion, the most annoying part of this space, dedicated to an entirely spurious worship of himself. Somehow Allesandor had managed to get the blasted thing to look just enough like him that it was causing problems, awkward questions, and strange stares. He'd managed to deflect the majority of them so far, but it was beginning to become extremely wearing.

He glared up at the representation of himself from a dark and desperate future that he was no longer certain of. For so long he had been so clear of the path that he trod, of how things would happen, play out, ending in a gradual darkening as Humanity spread across the galaxy, fighting against overwhelming odds. But then Allesandor Carrow had made his appearance and, like throwing a brick at a window, he had disrupted _everything_. Things were slowly beginning to settle, but to his resigned horror, Allesandor was instrumental to a whole host of important events in the near future…actually more like the next few centuries at the very minimum. All he could do was keep close to the annoying lump and try and keep the chaos to a minimum. At least he wasn't going to be bored for the foreseeable future.

Now to the pressing matter of his favourite mug. _Darling_ little Allesandor had taken to running off with it and placing it in the Chapel for veneration and worship, as a holy object. He rolled his eyes in exasperation; at least it wasn't on the main altar this time.

The God-Emperor narrowed his eyes as he searched for any possible niches or other hiding places among the heavy decoration. Nothing obvious…but what about that little side chapel tucked in beside that particularly lurid skull rack? The God-Emperor sidled over, taking in its comparatively plain appearance. Just white-wash on the walls? Goodness, Allesandor must be slipping. Even the altar was undecorated, just a plain white linen cloth and fresh flowers among the candles and incense burner that stood in front of a double portrait. The God-Emperor paused a moment; was it him or did the man in the picture look uncommonly like Allesandor, if Allesandor wore glasses? A slow grin broke over his face. Were these Allesandor's parents?

He shuffled closer, examining the portrait with keen interest. Yes, that had to be it; Allesandor had made a shrine to venerate the memory of his parents. Sometimes it was too easy to just see Allesandor as a highly intelligent thug, but then he'd discover something like this about the annoying man. It was rather charming, almost sweet really.

Ah, there, next to the vase of flowers, his mug! He reached over, scooping it up.

"Oh! Hello," said the red-haired lady, apparently Allesandor's mother given the vivid green of her eyes, "are you a friend of my son's?"

The God-Emperor gave this some thought. "I suppose I am…in a way; enough to try and keep him out of trouble. We work together mainly." He gave her a smile.

"Really? I'm Lily by the way," the red-head smiled up at him, "I've seen you coming and going. Is the, err…I'm not sure how to ask this, but…" her eyes flicked towards the main altar, "you look remarkably like the St. George statue…"

"Ah, heh heh," the God-Emperor chuckled nervously as he cradled his favourite mug in both hands, "some sort of coincidence, I'm sure." He backed away nervously. Blasted statue.

"Please don't go," Lily sighed, a note of desperation seeping into her voice, "we hardly get any visitors…I mean ones capable of talking to us, anyway." She grimaced.

The God-Emperor sighed in understanding. Allesandor's growing collection of bone golems and other assorted flesh puppets could be rather alarming on first acquaintance, and second acquaintance, and third…and Allesandor couldn't seem to be persuaded that there was any sort of problem with them, morally or legally.

"So…ah…what were you here for?" Lily asked tentatively.

"Oh, I was just retrieving my mug," the God-Emperor explained, showing it to her.

"Star Trek," Lily sighed happily as she leaned forward in the picture to get a better look. Beside her, James grumbled slightly in his sleep as he shifted and stirred. "I remember watching that when it was first on the television…just before I started Hogwarts, actually. It was so exciting and new, and Spock…ooh," she smiled, blissfully happy at the distant memory, "Mum and me used to sit on the sofa together to watch it, and there were the arguments afterwards about whether Spock or Kirk was the dishiest."

James shook his head in disgust as he yawned widely and stretched. "Not romance novels _again_ ," he muttered darkly. Lily ignored him.

"You must have seen it when it when it first came out over here," the God-Emperor mused.

"Probably," Lily nodded slowly, "this was, erm…maybe 1969. Petty, my sister, never got involved, as she considered it all far beneath her." Lily sighed sadly, leaning into James, who put his arm around her comfortingly.

"That's sad," the God-Emperor said, "did you ever get to go to a sci-fi convention or anything like that?"

Lily and James looked at one another in puzzlement. "I'm not even sure what that is," Lily said, looking slightly worried.

The God-Emperor beamed happily as he began to explain. "…and I go to at least one a year, preferably more if I can...and if I can, I like to join in the cosplay, generally in Star Trek uniform like the original series, but sometimes I go as an orc, because who can resist Dungeons and Dragons?" He shrugged. "But one year I went as He-man. It was so hard finding a decent blonde wig."

Lily nodded seriously, James standing beside her with an increasingly incredulous expression. "And people actually pay good money to go to these…convention thingies…and dress up as…as imaginary creatures and people and things? I knew muggles were weird but still…"

"James, be nice," Lily jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow.

"And one time," the God-Emperor carried on, really warming to his topic now, "I took this mug with me and…and Leonard Nimoy _touched it_."

"Oh, wow!" Lily breathed, completely oblivious to James's disgusted look.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Entering the Arena was rather like stepping into a small corner of Carrow's mind. The whole place seemed dedicated to the glorification of extreme violence. The large circular space could give a football stadium a run for its money on size alone, except that this arena was filled with an artificial landscape complete with a small wood, rocky outcrops and boulders and a waterfall that fed into a small pool that fed the stream which wound its way across the arena floor before disappearing through an arched opening underneath the viewing platform itself.

In the intricate steel work of the roof, lighting, which Timothy suspected were actually magical, helped recreate the feeling of an overcast summer's day. There was even a system to produce rain and even snow and hail. It really was quite a remarkable feat of engineering.

Not to forget the viewing platform itself, which jutted out into the landscape enabling one to have a full and unobstructed view of the action. It also appeared to have been designed with some pretty decadent entertaining in mind, what with the plushly upholstered seating, the beautifully carved marble, and statues of semi-naked ladies representing various aspects of the martial mind.

Definitely the best place for Carrow (in his opinion) to test his brand new toy, a rotary canon, something you would normally find mounted on aircraft or vehicles. Carrow being as he was, the piece of weaponry counted more as a machine gun or something like. And of course Carrow being as he was, had taken this simple test of a new weapon and turned it into an impromptu party, the people from GE Inc. rubbing shoulders with Aquila Ind. Personnel, mainly the R&D lot, and of course Carrow's personal entourage, or whatever he wanted to call it. Actually, he had little to talk about in this regard as some of them were his people, curious as to why Carrow was so excited, and wanting to be forewarned before anything really dangerous happened. Wulfric was hovering as usual. Even Rita had turned up.

It apparently wasn't what the GE Inc. people were used to. Timothy raised an eyebrow as he looked round the people currently crowding the viewing platform. Frankly, he wasn't sure he blamed them; if he wasn't initiated into the ways of Carrow then he'd be pretty spooked too.

He turned back to the telescope, one of several that were set up along the balustrade specifically so that viewers could get a better look at the violence occurring below. He pointed it at the wall paintings that towered above the artificial landscape in arched concrete niches. They had to be Carrow's handiwork or at least even if he didn't paint them himself he certainly designed them. They looked like propaganda pictures for a particularly violent fascist state in some war-torn future. Giant soldiers, male and female, gazed down, their expressions stern and resolute as they hefted their weapons, tanks of ugly and unfamiliar design, aircraft taking part in a dog-fight above a desert streaked world, a gigantic space ship covered in baroque encrustations ploughing through the darkness of space…

"Hey Tim," Wulfric chirped, "have you tried the buffet yet? Cook's really pushed the boat out and made a cheese and pineapple hedgehog."

"Ah yes," Timothy muttered as he continued to examine the space ship, "the cheese and pineapple hedgehog, the very height of haute cuisine."

"Do you think," Rita asked from his other side, "Mr Carrow based the paintings on things he actually saw?"

Timothy looked up a moment from his art-appreciation. "I think it highly likely."

Rita considered this for a moment. "So," she said slowly, "that means there are worlds out there, actual planets like ours with weather and plants and water and creatures living on them, like right now."

"Yes…yes…right at this moment," Timothy said, "living creatures, _intelligent_ living creatures going about their lives, farming, building, making art and culture, having wars…" he shook himself, feeling thoroughly spooked.

From below came a crackle of fire as Carrow disintegrated yet another target.

"Travel between the stars," Rita sighed as she stared off into the distance, "it's utterly mind boggling…"

"Come on you two," Wulfric huffed in amusement, "less introspection, more coffee and sandwiches. You both look like you need it."

Sighing, Timothy and Rita exchanged looks. "Honestly, Wulfric," Timothy said as they trailed over to the buffet table, "it's really disturbing when you start channelling my mother."

Rita smirked at Wulfric's indignant expression. "Look, I've just got your best interests at heart, like, you know, not letting you starve to death."

"I know, I know," Timothy patted his arm, "see," he held up his paper plate showing off his little collection of food, "I'm taking note of your concern."

Wulfric did not look impressed.

"Erm, excuse me…but this isn't how these things normally go," the nervous man from GE Inc. twittered, a couple of his colleagues hanging back behind him.

Timothy eyed him suspiciously. "How do you mean?" he asked.

"Well…well, there's all _this_ and…and we get ushered into an indoor _arena_ …landscaped tournament thingie…I don't know how to describe this place," he waved an arm out to encompass the view from the observation platform they were currently stood on.

Everyone looked around to see what he meant, including one of the researchers from the R&D department who seemed to have done something odd to her face that made her look as if she'd eaten loads of baby acromantula, and then just left the legs hanging out of her mouth like some peculiar beard.

He'd walked past her and a friend deep in conversation earlier.

"…been thinking about getting another arm added."

"But Bethany, you've already got three…"

Timothy had decided it was probably best not to enquire.

"We generally call it the _Arena_ ," Timothy said eyeing the man from the corner of his eye, "I understand it's very useful for realistic tests such as these, among other things." He stared down at where Carrow was stalking slowly through some shrubby trees, his new weapon held at the ready. "At least this way you get to see that the modifications that were made are successful," he said.

"What? You mean like the _carry handle_ and the loops for a shoulder strap, not to mention making the trigger assembly and grips suitable for jumbo sized fingers?" the man said sarcastically. "We normally mount this particular model of rotary canon on helicopters. Not much call for shoulder straps...or hand grips."

There really wasn't much he could say to that, Timothy thought, as he leaned on the balustrade, watching as Carrow came across yet another target, a pig carcass, spring loaded to suddenly pop up from behind a shrub. A sharp crackle from Carrow's new toy turned it into so much red mist and fleshy pulp.

"What's that?" the man asked suspiciously.

"Pig carcass." Timothy sighed as the man looked utterly horrified. Why were these people so over-excitable? "What did you expect him to use? People?" Actually, Carrow probably would, given the opportunity.

Oh dear, the man looked really offended now. "Don't you do tests like these with your weapons?" Timothy asked, trying to defuse the situation.

"Well…yes, sort of…held tests and…"

"Can we watch too?" Hermione Granger asked brightly from behind them. Timothy turned to find the summer gathering of the Defence Club standing there in all their khaki mud-splattered glory, watching him expectantly.

Giving them an indulgent smile Timothy waved them in. "No sitting on the balustrade though, remember."

"Yes, sir," they obediently chorused, trooping in with Tiffany and Felix trailing after them, much to Timothy's amusement. Like little ducklings, he thought.

"What the…" the man muttered edging away from the small crowd of weapon wielding children.

"Some young friends of Mr Carrow's," Timothy explained cheerfully, as Carrow exploded another pig carcass in a crackle of gun fire.

"When do we get armour like that?" Millicent Bulstrode asked wistfully as Carrow scrambled up a ten foot cliff as if it were nothing.

"Probably never." Timothy said. "That armour is completely unique to Mr Carrow, so we will most likely never see its like again," _thank goodness_ , he added internally, "though I understand Professor Schmidt is attempting to reverse engineer it."

"Oh," Millicent sighed sadly.

"Huh," the man said, "if your expert manages it, you could make an absolute fortune. Think of the governments who'd love to get their hands on something like that."

Timothy gave the idiot man a flat stare; no, he would not like to think of the sort of governments who'd like armour like that.

A flat boom sounded from below, accompanied by a vivid flash of light. It appeared that Carrow had taken other things to try out along with his new toy, given the size of that crater. Some sort of grenade by the looks of it, but it seemed odd given the lack of debris. Was it an implosion device? There had been some discussion of the development of such an effect at the last meeting with the R&D team. Wonderful. Another new product for the upcoming Expo then, which typically the Board were already getting the jitters over, mainly of the " _will we be banned this year?_ " sort.

The man from GE Inc. just silently stared, seemingly transfixed by the scene of martial something or other that Carrow was busily displaying. Though at the moment, he seemed to be changing the ammunition of his new toy. Timothy glared suspiciously at the box the ribbon of cartridges were spooling out of. That looked suspiciously like an Aquila product. What was Carrow up to now?

Movement by the doorway caught his attention. Hopefully it wasn't Artemis determined to join the fun. He wasn't sure the GE Inc. lot could take much more excitement. To his relief, it was Percy Weasley who he'd set to work searching for the exact whereabouts of Cedric Diggory. Hopefully he'd been able to unearth something he hadn't given his limited time. "I won't be a moment," he said vaguely as he strode to the door.

Wulfric gave him a disapproving glare as he pointed to his abandoned plate of food, Rita hiding her smile.

"Sir," Percy greeted him, a worried little frown on his usually serious face, "I've been unable to find Mr Diggory's exact location but I think I may have found a vague possibility." He fished a tablet computer (a highly illegal combination of muggle technology and magic) out of his shoulder bag and activated it, scrolling through a menu of files before selecting one. "Look," he said, holding it up for his perusal.

"The R&D Department," Timothy frowned as he looked over the data displayed on the screen, "what the heck is he doing there? He was supposed to be at the Ministry…oh…the _Garage_?" He gave Percy an enquiring look.

Percy shrugged. "According to the gossip, that's what they're calling Professor Schmidt's lab, the R&D lot anyway. Even for Ravenclaws, they're not very sane, are they?"

Timothy shook his head in exasperation. "Nerds," he sighed, "but why would Carrow divert him there? His grades were good but…"

The distinct crackle of the rotary canon was followed by multiple whistling sounds and then a tooth rattling " _Whoomph!_ "

The GE Inc. man stood pale and stunned, mouth hanging open as he stared down into the arena. Utterly ridiculous, Timothy thought as he stalked past, Percy trailing after him, Carrow wasn't actually even _trying_ to be shocking at the moment. Looking over the balustrade, he groaned in frustration. Below, Carrow stood by a craggy boulder which now exhibited a large and almost perfectly circular crater, as if someone had taken a giant ice-cream scoop to the rock. Nearby was the truncated remains of a jig that should have supported a pig carcass.

There was no pig carcass, not so much as a smear of gore visible on the ground, and Carrow looking disgustingly smug. Timothy glared in frustration; did the giant idiot not understand about the importance of confidentiality and secrecy when it came to experimental products? They were supposed to be running a business, damn it!

oOo

Timothy sighed as Carrow entered onto the viewing platform, his power armour emitting its teeth aching whine as he strode softly in, the Purgatus of St Seraphim lazily snaking its way across his enormous chest plate, the floor shaking with his huge weight.

The GE Inc. people now looked ready to throw themselves over the balustrade and take their chances in the hostile landscape below. Even the Defence Club were keeping a respectful distance, though their eyes were full of awe and barely contained excitement. Rita had disappeared, though Timothy thought he caught a glimpse of blue as something small crawled under Wulfric's collar.

Carrow lovingly placed his new toy, sans ammunition, on its specially prepared rack, giving it an affectionate wipe with a cloth. He turned to the GE Inc. personnel who cringed back from his looming form.

"Are there particular prayer rites its machine spirit would prefer?" Carrow asked, giving the rotary canon a pat. "Specific machine oils it desires?"

The man from GE Inc. stuttered, his face a strange putty colour, "I erm…er…" he looked around desperately for help or maybe somewhere to hide.

Timothy took pity on him. "Maybe you could show Professor Schmidt your new acquisition. I'm sure he would be more than able to answer your questions."

Carrow smiled in delight, an expression far too full of teeth to be friendly. "An excellent idea…ah, yes." He suddenly crouched down, the servos of his armour screeching at the movement, pulling a box from under the weapons display rack, a long and narrow box that looked highly suspicious to Timothy's mind. He glared at the annoying man as he strode over to the Defence Club the floor of the viewing platform vibrating with each step. What was he up to now?

"I understand," Carrow boomed "that like myself, Neville Longbottom also celebrates the anniversary of his birth at this time of year…and so on the occasion of this your…fifteenth," he looked at Neville for confirmation, "year of life, Terran standard, I give you this gift suitable for the man you have become."

Before Timothy could interfere or cause a distraction Carrow had placed the box in the arms of a surprised and delighted Neville.

"What is it?" Ron whispered sounding almost excited as Neville looked.

The box was quickly opened on the hastily cleared end of the buffet table to gasps and shrieks of excitement.

"Wow, Neville," Hermione exclaimed sounding almost girlish for once, "it's beautiful!"

Timothy felt his heart drop as slowly Neville lifted a brand-new Solaris plasma rifle from its custom case. They'd shown prototypes of this weapon at the Expo before it had even acquired a name, but of course quite a bit of work had been done on it since in preparation for the next Expo, and…

What the God-Emperor's name did Carrow think he was doing giving a cutting edge _plasma rifle_ to a fifteen year old? Sometimes the sheer mind boggling _stupidity_ of the man…he ground his teeth as he struggled to get his temper reined in.

"Really? For me?" Neville said gazing up at Carrow, cradling the gun in his arms as if it were a precious child, his eyes filled with emotion.

"Indeed," Carrow smiled, "and since we are here in the Arena I have arranged a special treat just so you too can test fire your new weapon."

Entire cities could have been lit with the brightness of Neville's smile.

Grinding his teeth in frustration, Timothy went back to the landscape; it was probably best to not get involved in this latest bout of idiocy. Carrow obviously thought this was some sort of wonderful treat he was laying on here, and apparently the Defence Club, who were rapidly turning into miniature versions of him, were in complete agreement.

"They're like little cheerleaders, aren't they?" Wulfric muttered as he came to stand beside him, obviously trying not to laugh.

Timothy glared at him.

"Wonder what the "treat" is?" Wulfric carried on cheerfully.

A chorus of ohh's and ahh's broke out as a gate down below rumbled open, disgorging an indignant and very angry manticore into the arena.

The GE Inc. people weren't magical. At all. Timothy closed his eye in frustration; of all the…bloody stupid…oh he could just wrap his hands round Carrow's neck right now and gladly strangle the bloody arrogant man. Should he take them to one side or just pretend nothing strange was happening?

"What..what's that?" one of the GE Inc. people asked, their voice strained with shock and panic, their eyes wide and shaken.

"Oh, it's just a manticore," Wulfric said cheerfully, "I'm sure Neville will make quick work of it." He gave the ashen-faced man a reassuring grin.

The manticore gave a horrible, almost human shriek of rage as it glared around the landscape it suddenly found itself in, its face human-like enough to be deeply unsettling, the dusky light glinting off the scorpion tail that arched over its back. Shaking its mane of golden red hair, it sprinted off, diving in amongst the trees of the nearest copse.

Down below, Neville came into view as he crept up alongside some boulders, his new plasma rifle held at the ready.

It was a good job that the lad's more bearish instincts seemed to seep over into his human form, otherwise he'd be really worrying. Creeping among the boulders, Neville pulled himself him up keeping low as he got himself into a position where he had an excellent view of the Arena. A trumpeting howl broke out among the trees, and Timothy gripped the balustrade of the viewing platform harder, jaw painfully tight.

The manticore was apparently feeling calm enough to start exploring its new environment, cautiously exiting the copse of trees and meandering in among a rocky outcrop as it headed towards the sound of the waterfall. Seeing his chance, Neville slipped down from his vantage point and began to head slowly and cautiously towards the stream.

"What is he doing?" one of the GE Inc. people asked as he leaned forward trying to get a better view. Timothy ignored him as he followed Neville's progress through a viewing-telescope. The lad had reached the stream and was now cautiously following it up towards the waterfall...where the Manticore had cautiously come down to the water for a drink. It obviously knew something was up too. It was the biggest problem dealing with the creatures, they were highly intelligent and if you weren't thinking on your toes…

Neville had made it on to the rocks on the other side of the pool…Timothy's shoulders tensed. If the Manticore spotted him before he was ready, he was as good as dead…

The Manticore tensed ready to spring, but Neville was ready…a crackling zap sounded out across the Arena as a flash of light blasted through the chest of the furious creature. Slowly, the creature slumped down onto the rocks a puzzled look across its face.

"I wonder if Longbottom would like the head mounted as a trophy," Carrow wondered out loud.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The Potter family home exuded old money in a way that people like the Malfoys could only hope to aspire to, Barty Crouch Senior mused. Only a family that old and that wealthy would have such shabby though expensive wallpaper, or have a carpet that threadbare in such a public room. Of course, the carpet was most likely a real Persian hand-knotted woollen affair that would cost a small fortune to replace, but it still didn't change the fact that it had a bald patch near one end.

There was also the chair he was sitting in, an oak affair, the arms worn to a glass-like sheen with age. Also of wonderful quality he was sure, but of such an old design that it had probably last been fashionable sometime around 1342. He suspected it was some of the original furniture the multitudinous Potters had brought with them when they had first moved to this area, seeking to improve their fortunes.

Now there was only one left, sitting across the low table from him. A hulking intimidating figure with predatory calculating eyes and the personality of a hungry shark. As for his dress sense…where _did_ he get his robes? He stared at the black brocade horrors Carrow was wearing today, with their row of gilded skull themed buttons down the front. It wasn't _Twilfits & Tattings,_ that was for certain. He shook his head slightly trying to dislodge the unpleasant fuzzy feeling that seemed to be dogging him constantly at the moment.

Mr Crouch wasn't entirely clear why the Senior Under-Secretary had invited him to lunch, and he was definitely beginning to regret that glass of whisky he'd had first thing and the one at elevenses too. Wasn't the man supposed to be severely injured? But he appeared to be in reasonable health. This was all definitely a cause for concern, because if you didn't have all the facts, and Carrow was involved…

A shiver went down his spine as a lumpen servant entered the room, pushing a trolley laden with plates of sandwiches, cakes and tea-making paraphernalia…and of course, that led to the problem of what exactly did Carrow know? The man seemed to have spies and agents everywhere, all feeding him information and twisting the Ministry to his every whim and desire.

It was very clear, Carrow was highly dangerous, even now when he appeared to be on the defensive, with his young protégé taking his place for the time being. He winced at the memory of a particularly painful meeting he'd had with Faulks just a few days previously.

As the servant began to lay plates out on the table, it made soft groans and hisses, and Mr Crouch leaned away from it in revulsion. What sort of creatures did Carrow employ in his household? Some sort of illegal hybrid? If so, he'd be having words with the relevant Ministerial department.

He winced as the sleeve of its robe drew back, revealing brass mechanical parts, rods and cogs moving and shifting with the thing's motion, all of it embedded in pale pasty flesh that looked as if it had been dead for a while but carefully preserved, something black sliding slowly through its veins.

Some sort of flesh automaton then. His gut chilled at the realisation. He'd heard rumours about some of the last Potter's more unsavoury hobbies, having always dismissed them as political slander. It seemed Mr Carrow was a practitioner of some obscure branch of Necromancy, after all…though wasn't that contacting the spirits of the dead? Maybe Voodoo, they had zombie servants, didn't they?

He watched in revulsion as the hood of the robe slipped to reveal the pale flesh of the thing's face, slack-jawed and an unattractive grey, the eyes replaced with rune engraved crystal orbs that flickered and glowed, as the flesh golem jerked and moaned and sighed as it went about its task. Curious how familiar those freckles were…and that nose…and the chin…he dismissed the thought; he'd got enough on his plate currently without adding to it, by considering the Ministry's resident head-case's disgusting hobbies. Hopefully, the Aurors would catch up with him at some point.

"Would you like milk in your tea?" Carrow's booming voice asked.

Crouch's head snapped round to find Carrow smiling at him, displaying far too many white even teeth, his green eyes glinting icily.

"I err, yes…yes please," he said nervously.

"And sugar?" Carrow boomed.

"Two…two please," Crouch whispered, accepting the delicate bone china cup and saucer. Disturbingly (and typically) it appeared to be part of a mourning set, what with the tasteful purple, black and gold design of skulls and laurel wreaths. It felt like some sort of omen.

"Please help yourself to sandwiches," Carrow offered gesturing to the triangles of pale bread laid out in front of them. Crouch considered for a moment; did he really want to consume something that had been so recently near something so obviously half dead? It was a matter of hygiene after all. Under the heavy scrutiny of Carrow, he took a couple and placed them delicately on his plate. If he died of food poisoning, at least he'd be free of Carrow and all his other troubles.

This was all rather civilised really, in a mad twisted sort of way. The tea was excellent quality, and the potentially dangerous sandwiches…he took a bite of one; ham and cucumber with a dab of mustard. Not bad at all.

"And now to business," Carrow smiled toothily at him. Crouch's appetite rapidly retreated as he put down the rest of the sandwich.

"Ah yes," Crouch inwardly winced, shifting uncomfortably on his chair, "Haiti. Terrible business, I'm sure, but not really anything to do with us. I'm sure the magical authorities there are perfectly capable of apprehending Mr McGuire, and dealing with him without any intervention from us."

"Except Mr McGuire is also guilty of crimes in this country too, specifically that series of unpleasant incidents in the Knockturn area over the last couple of years," Carrow pointed out.

Crouch did his best to resist grinding his teeth. "I'm not sure…" he began but Carrow cut him off.

"Not to mention two possible home invasions, and I'd like a closer look at that _pet_ of his," Carrow carried on. "I'm sure we'd have an answer to the second family's missing son."

"A matter for the muggle authorities, I'm sure," Crouch attempted to counter.

"A matter for all of us," Carrow said with bone chilling finality.

Crouch glared at him; why couldn't this annoying man just leave things well alone? The Ministry was a fine institution and had been doing its job for centuries in exactly the same way with little to no difficulty until Carrow had come along and blundered through things like a rabid troll, stepping on people's toes, upsetting proverbial apple-carts and poking his nose into business he damn well shouldn't. The man just didn't seem to know his place, but what would you expect from an uppity half-blood?

His glare deepened as Carrow smirked back, delicately nibbling on a sandwich which looked ridiculously small in his huge fingers. The arrogant, self-absorbed…Crouch fumed silently, shaking with nerves. What he would give for a little whisky right now. Why had he been stupid enough to agree to this? The small quantity of food he'd managed to ingest sat heavy on his stomach like a block of granite.

"Yes, a matter for all of us," Carrow repeated thoughtfully, "which is why I wished to speak with you."

Crouch felt his stomach fall even further. If it went any further it would end up in Carrow's wine cellars.

"As you well know," Carrow smiled smugly, "I often liaise with Madam Bones on problems she needs a specialist's touch for, which means I often operate outside this country, in order to purge Holy Terra of the foul taint of corruption that plagues Humanity. This is where _you_ come in, Mr Crouch."

 _Foul taint? Holy Terra? What?_ Crouch stared at the giant lunatic in bewilderment.

Carrow leaned forward, his smile never reaching his eyes. "Sometimes I need someone in a position to smooth things out for me legally, reach out to your equivalents elsewhere and ease the way for treaties and other agreements as I require…including Mr McGuire's imminent retrieval."

"You expect me to be your personal lackey," Crouch snarled, rising sharply to his feet. But Carrow was unperturbed, sitting back in his chair, smirking lazily. Crouch winced and tensed as the large man snapped out something in garbled Latin. Was he casting some sort of spell? He looked round nervously at the sighing and hissing of the disgusting flesh golem, only to come face to face with it as it sightlessly began to carry out Carrow's instructions, clearing away the plates of savoury foods.

It did look horribly familiar; from this angle, it looked just like…Crouch yelped and jerked in his chair. This was his _son_ , his actual son, his little boy turned into a play-thing by a monstrous _evil_ man…

Hands shaking almost uncontrollably, Crouch settled back in his chair, watching as the thing that used to be his son laid out plates of cakes before retreating to its place beside the door. To Crouch's utter revulsion, the hideous creation appeared to be wearing a bib with a tray to catch the drool that ran continuously down its…his chin.

Shaken to his core, he turned to glare at the perpetrator of this foul deed, only to find Carrow leaning back in his chair, a smirk of utter satisfaction on his face, his green eyes cold and calculating.

"Would you like a cake?" Carrow almost grinned as he gestured towards the plates of fondant fancies, the skull buttons of his robes grinning along with him. Crouch slumped in his chair, utterly depressed and defeated. Oh, _how_ he wished for a bottle of whisky right now.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

* * *

Author's Note

This feels a little short so I hope it's all right. It's been rather interesting picking Carrow back up after finishing off _Through the Veil Strangely_ so I ended up rewriting the first couple of chapters because I felt the caracterisation was rather off. I'm starting to get back into it now though and, I'm sure you'll be pleased to know am currently working on chapter 5.

Writing is going to be a little interesting over the next few weeks because on top of work and my karate training I've also signed up to take part in White Collar Boxing. I went to one of their events and it was brilliant, really well organised, probably one of the best evenings out I've had in a very long while. So yes, I'm just about to start my third week of training and so far it's been brilliant, hard work but great fun :-)

Anyway, hope you all enjoy the new chapter.

* * *

Chapter 2

Now he knew what he was looking for it was almost impossible to avoid, rather like suddenly discovering the colour blue. Timothy propped himself up against the wall momentarily, mindful of all the odd paraphernalia, junk and much doodled white boards that cluttered the corridor that led up to the reserve labs where Professor Schmidt had set up home.

The psychic presence of the man was impossible to miss, like wading through blinding sunlight that was as thick as treacle. Timothy shook himself as he mentally steeled himself. Walking around where someone had carried on some heavily involved calculation onto the floor, he slowly approached the plain grey fire doors.

Someone had taped a homemade sign to them, a witch on a broomstick complete with disapproving cat. _Mumbo Jumbo in Progress!_ It announced. Seriously? Timothy shook his head with a sigh, running nervous fingers through his hair. Blasted stuff needed cutting again, but he never quite seemed to have enough time.

Looking back, he saw the same individual who'd decided to draw on the floor had also partially filled the ceiling. The sooner they had that new mainframe computer they were begging for, the better.

Trying to hide his nerves, he knocked sharply on the door. The cheerful whistling on the other side stopped. "Come in," Professor Schmidt boomed.

Sliding around the door, Timothy almost fainted as the man's psychic presence went from almost unbearable to intolerable. He swayed as his vision greyed around the edges, his eye swimming as he desperately tried to stay conscious.

Large hands guided him to a chair. "I see Xander has been teaching you things he probably shouldn't," Professor Schmidt's voice sounded as if it were coming through a long tunnel, distant and muddled and extremely exasperated, "such a sink-or-swim attitude to everything."

Definitely sink, Timothy thought his mind sluggish and glacial under the psychic assault of this impossible being's presence.

"Here, if you just close your eye…like that…yes."

Gasping for air, Timothy blinked as the world snapped back into focus. The ceiling tiles and fluorescent tube lighting were blessedly reassuring in their utter dullness and he breathed a huge sigh of relief. No face tentacles then.

"Okay?" Professor Schmidt asked. Timothy tilted his head to find the huge man looking down at him with concern, black curls hanging messily around his hawkishly handsome face, the infamous pencil wand tucked behind his ear.

"I'm…I'm fine," Timothy croaked, trying to nod his head but sinking back into the chair with a groan when the motion set off a new wave of nausea.

"Right," Professor Schmidt sighed, as he handed a puzzled Timothy a bunch of tissues. "For your nose bleed," he explained.

Blinking in puzzlement, Timothy dabbed at his upper lip, only to find the tissue coming away a brilliant scarlet. Oh Throne! He thought.

Professor Schmidt…the God-Emperor of Mankind gave him a quizzical look as he made a cup of coffee. "Here, this should help you feel better," he said as he handed it over, "I've got some biscuits around here somewhere."

"Honestly, I'm fine," Timothy protested sounding rather muffled through the tissues.

Professor Schmidt ignored him as he rifled through a cupboard and then a drawer. "Do you want ginger nuts or jammie dodgers?" he asked turning round, holding the packets up for Timothy's assessment, "and honestly Tim, call me Jon."

Timothy couldn't even begin to imagine calling such an incredible indescribable being by such an informal name. It just didn't feel right.

"Anyway," Jon carried on, looking slightly fed-up, "you wanted to ask me about something?" he said as he planted a plate of biscuits on Timothy's lap.

"Erm yes…Cedric Diggory. He was supposed to start work in our Ministerial Department over a month ago, but he disappeared," Timothy said distracted as he decided what to tackle first. Scalding hot coffee, plate of biscuits or the heavily blood stained tissues. He couldn't see a bin anywhere, and he daren't move in case he spilled or dropped something. Effectively pinned by biscuits, he though with an exasperated sigh.

"Didn't Xander cover his tracks?" Jon asked, almost amused, as he toed the wastepaper basket towards him.

"Of course he did," Timothy said as he sipped the coffee. Hot, wet and caffeinated, just what he needed he thought as he relaxed. "The only reason I went digging was I knew Mr Diggory was supposed to start work with us and then he didn't appear, and no one seemed to know anything, including his very worried parents. So I went looking for him. All I've been able to discover is that Mr Carrow diverted him to the R&D Department, specifically the "Garage", which apparently means you."

Jon considered him carefully for a moment.

"Carrow's up to something isn't he?" Timothy asked with an exasperated sigh closing his one remaining eye.

"Well…I suppose…"

"And he's pulled you into his latest ridiculous scheme. Hasn't he?" Timothy glared. "I thought you were more sensible than that."

Jon actually looked embarrassed for a moment scratching the back of his neck. "In a way," he admitted, his gaze turning alien and remote, "except that this will set in motion a whole range of events in the future that…" the large man shook himself, a grin spreading across his face. "Do you want to see them?"

"Them?" Timothy asked with a sinking feeling. He was definitely not going to like this.

"Biscuits first, though," Jon grinned at him.

oOo

The new lab Jon had taken him to appeared to be deep within the under-workings Carrow had ordered constructed several years previously. A monumental task that was still apparently ongoing. Timothy suspected sometimes that Carrow was building an underground city. Why? He could only begin to guess at the overwhelming paranoia that would lead someone to see such a thing as being an absolute necessity.

Now, beneath the stone vaulting of this space's ceiling sat two rows of almost bus sized machinery, humming and clicking to themselves, pipes and cables snaking away in an incomprehensible cat's cradle. So where was Mr Diggory? Was he working here? It seemed rather improbable since the only staff appeared in fact to be golems of some type, though a lot sleeker and neater than the filigreed bone-yard monstrosities Carrow so loved to make.

"So where…" Timothy asked, but Jon was busily flicking through the contents of a clipboard. "Ah," he smiled triumphantly, "I do believe…yep, CD-3541893, this is the one." He led the way down the row stooping in front of one of the machines. "Yes, this is it," he smiled down at Timothy, "this is where he is."

Timothy looked up at the machine, its faceless metal expanse unbroken and forbidding, a couple of green lights winking away in the partial gloom as cables and pipes climbed up from its top disappearing away to who knew where. "I don't understand," he turned back to Jon. "Is he being _experimented_ on or something?" he asked suspiciously not sure he was liking where this was going.

"In a way," Jon sighed. "After his, err, illness…accident…Xander came to me begging me to re-start…or start even, the Astartes program, and I could see his point, the necessity of it. So I agreed."

Timothy looked at him utterly horrified. "Astartes…Carrow is Astartes," he said slowly, "which means," he turned to stare at the machines, apparently giant incubators, cold sweat trickling down his spine, "that this is a _nursery_ for…"

"Yep. Baby Carrows," Jon grinned, almost laughing at Timothy's appalled expression. "Well no," he sighed, "I'd have to be utterly mental to clone Xander, however lovable he is. No, I've studied Xander's biology, with his permission of course, and back-engineered the process. There were a few hiccups along the way, and I've made some tweaks here and there just to improve the process. But rest assured, these likely lads will be very much their own people."

Turning slowly on the spot Timothy counted the machines, twenty all told. So twenty possible bio-engineered super soldiers. Nearly an army in its own right if they were all as capable as Carrow. "Why," he asked slowly, "would we need nearly two dozen super-soldiers?"

Jon considered him for a moment, his head slightly tilted, his gaze distant. "It won't be twenty. Not this first time, at any rate. I'm still refining the process to reduce adverse reactions and the like." He patted the nearest machine, "Thanks to Xander just existing right now, the future is going to be a lot more _exciting_ a lot more quickly…we're going to need them," he said firmly.

"By exciting, I take it you mean hair-raisingly dangerous," Timothy sighed.

Jon shrugged with a grin. "Maybe, maybe not. There's also this," he said after a moment. "Have you ever considered just how soul crushingly lonely Carrow is?"

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Professor McGonagall looked around carefully at the painfully Muggle street she had just made a sudden appearance on. Fortunately, nobody seemed to be about, nor was there any suspicious twitching of lace curtains. Not that such behaviour would occur in such an obviously affluent area, probably. She gave the nearest detached Victorian villa with its carefully groomed front garden a suspicious glare.

Now to find 112 Wisteria Way. In most muggle areas that she had visited, the house numbers would zig-zag back and forth across the street, even on one side, odd on the other. But this particular road, for some unfathomable reason was numbered consecutively, number 26 sitting next door to number 27, while across the road were numbers 298 and 299. It appeared she was in for something of a walk.

Shaking her head at the contrariness of muggles, Professor McGonagall set off, her sensible tweed skirt swishing around her calves, her practical brogues clip-clopping smartly on the pavement.

Number 112 Wisteria Way turned out to be a mock Tudor affair with a front garden full of yellow and salmon pink roses, a large and extraordinarily ugly muggle vehicle occupying the front drive. Why the conveyance had shiny silver bars attached to its front was beyond her; was it to drive some sort of creature before it? All very peculiar.

Walking up the steps to the front door, she pressed the doorbell, only to glare at it when it proceeded to play a jaunty little tune. How terribly vulgar.

A thundering of steps and a clatter proceeded the wrenching open of the front door, and Professor McGonagall found herself looking down at a possible future student.

"Is this the Pratt…"

"Are you the teacher from Hogwarts?" the girl butted in rather rudely, her dark eyes snapping with excitement as she practically vibrated on the spot.

"I am indeed Professor McGonagall," Minerva said primly.

The girl squealed like a demented kettle, grabbing her wrist and yanking her into the house much to Minerva's shock.

"MUUUUUM!" the small banshee bellowed as she dragged her along. "The Hogwarts teacher is here!"

"TIFFANY! How many times have I told you not to shout in the house!" an older female voice bellowed from the depths of the house. But the girl, Tiffany, definitely a future student if her parents were amenable, seemed to pay her mother no heed as she pattered through into what appeared to be a living room, given the quantity of chintzy furniture and knick-knacks.

Minerva blinked in quickly hidden surprise as a very blonde woman with shockingly orange skin and terrifying eyelashes like demented spiders appeared from around the corner wearing…Minerva blinked in surprise again. Was the woman in her underwear? She'd seen some very curious muggle attire in her time as she visited prospective muggle-born students, but still…

"Oh, hello," the woman minced forward in strappy pink sandals, extending her hand in greeting, "I'm Trudi, Tiffany's mum. She's been so excited the last couple of weeks, absolutely desperate for her Hogwarts letter she's been."

Minerva gave Trudi's pink taloned hand a dubious look before shaking it. "I am Professor McGonagall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Your daughter Tiffany is eligible to attend in September, due to her special magical abilities. I am sure you have many questions," she said as she pulled out the parchment letter from her handbag and presented it to Tiffany, who bounced up and down with excitement, the heels of her funny muggle shoes flashing obnoxiously.

"I will endeavour to answer as many as I possibly can," Minerva finished, the beginnings of a migraine throbbing just above her right eye. She was so glad she'd thought to pack a headache remedy this morning.

"It's my letter, it's my letter," Tiffany squealed in excitement as she raced off, "Tyler! I've got my letter!"

Trudi shook her head in exasperation, hands on her hips. "Would you like a cup of tea, darling?"

"Yes, please." Minerva sighed inwardly. This looked like it was going to be one of the more difficult visitations.

"So I've been meaning to ask," Trudi called through from the kitchen, "does conjured food have calories?

What on Earth was a calorie? Minerva frowned in puzzlement. Was it some curious muggle edible she had hitherto been unaware of? Trudi minced back in with a tray of mugs and a plate of biscuits. "Just curious, you understand," she said as she perched on the edge of the chintzy sofa, handing a mug of tea over. Minerva couldn't help but notice that the object was decorated with very pink and painful looking high heeled shoes; her host's mug meanwhile was covered with teddy bears of all things. Come to think of it, there were rather a lot of teddy bears about the place, from ornaments to cushions. There were even a couple of stuffed bears sitting on the sofa itself, one of which had a large pink bow around its neck. It looked rather indignant about it.

"I was just thinking," Trudi carried on, "I'm on a diet, but if conjured chocolates have no calories then I could literally have my cake and eat it," she smiled triumphantly as her offspring clattered nosily back into the room.

"MUUUUUM," Tiffany's smaller male sibling roared, "I WANT MY HOGWARTS LETTER TOOOO!"

"Can it, Tyler!" Trudi shouted, "you'll get it when you're eleven!"

"I'm taking it," Minerva sighed, "you are well aware of the existence of magic and the magical world."

"Yeah," Trudi said as she considered the biscuits for a moment, "it runs through my mum's family. I must be the only mum on the street who has to tell her kids off for changing the colour of the carpet all the time." With a thoughtful frown, she scooped up a blue iced ring and bit a chunk out of it.

Minerva took an uneasy sip of her tea. "Have you…been to any of the magical shopping areas at all?"

"I haven't," Trudi said around her biscuit, "but my cousin, he's a wizard, has taken the kids around Diagon Alley and that more than once. If I hear one more thing about pet owls…" She rolled her eyes.

"I've learnt a little bit of magic already," Tiffany exclaimed, her voice full of excitement as she thumped a book full of impromptu bookmarks down on the coffee-table. Rifling through it, she pulled out a sheet of paper with a crude but painstakingly drawn runic array. Simple third year material to be sure, constructed from three interlinked symbols.

Minerva eyed it warily; was this young lady about to attempt what she thought…oh yes, she really was going to try and activate it without a wand. Should she intervene? But the likelihood of the young lady actually succeeding were rather slim.

"My cousin's been teaching her the odd thing," Trudi explained, "the culture and stuff…and he also gave her that book. Gives her little lessons every so often. At least it means she's not doing weird things to the sodding furniture any more."

"Indeed," Minerva said with pursed lips, not sure that she approved of this mystery cousin.

A bead of sweat trickled down the side of Tiffany's cheek as she scrunched up her face in concentration, Tyler watching her every move intently. The runic array stuttered for a moment before fluttering into life, the muggle paper warping and twisting oddly around the glowing magic as if it were in pain.

Minerva's eyebrows shot into her hairline; to be sure, she'd seen better, and the light the impromptu lamp cast was rather murky, but for the work of an untrained child, it was actually quite remarkable.

Tyler scooped up the glowing scrunched paper and ran off waving it triumphantly over his head. "Tyler! Give it back!" Tiffany yelled as she set off in hot pursuit.

"Keep that thing in the house," Trudi screamed after them, "and stay away from your Dad's computer!"

"Kids!" she snorted turning to Minerva. "Who'd have them, eh?"

Minerva gave her a strained smile.

The jaunty tune of the doorbell rang out over the sound of distant running feet and yelling, and Trudi pulled herself to her feet. "That'd better be my cousin. He's got a kid same age as Tiffany; well, not _his_ precisely, but he looks after him a lot, so we figured we could do the school shopping together."

"So err, you're accepting the place for your daughter, then?" Minerva asked, feeling quite discombobulated.

"Well, of course," Trudi shouted back, "if I can get her trained up to turn things the actual colours she wants, then it'll make redecorating so much simpler."

Somehow, Minerva thought, as she watched the other woman disappear from the room, Mrs Pratt was missing the point by a mile.

"Tim," Trudi's voice drifted in from the hall, "your timing's great, for once. She's upstairs, Felix."

A vaguely familiar voice murmured something indistinct, obscured as it was by the thundering of a third set of childish feet up the stairs, soon followed a shriek of "Felix!" from Tiffany somewhere overhead.

"…fraid we would miss you," the mystery male said as he came towards the living room.

"Not at all," Trudi said, obviously not _that_ thrilled with her visitor, "I was about to give you a call, actually, see where you were. Cup of tea?" she snapped over her shoulder, as she minced in.

"No, thanks. I'm sure you're eager to get going."

Minerva looked up curiously at the young man as he entered the room, blinked in surprise, blinked again and stared. There, in all his finery, stood the Acting Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, looking even more grim and haggard than the last time she'd seen him. What was such an august person of the Ministry doing here in this terribly _muggle_ neighbourhood? But of course… _cousins_ …wasn't he a muggleborn? How incredibly curious. She wasn't absolutely certain on this fact, since he hadn't been one of her lions. He _had_ been a solid EE student, though.

"Professor McGonagall," Senior Undersecretary Faulks said, his face breaking into the closest approximation to a smile he could apparently manage these days, as he strode forward to shake her hand, "it's very good to see you again. It wasn't so long ago that it was myself and my parents you were visiting to explain magic and Hogwarts to."

"Doesn't time fly," Minerva gave him a nostalgic smile, "you've grown quite a bit since then."

Faulks gave her a small tight smile, as footsteps thundered overhead accompanied by shouting. "Shall we round them up, then?"

oOo

"This is…well, frankly I'm lost for words," Professor McGonagall huffed.

Timothy was inclined to agree with her. There was just something fascinatingly awful about watching Trudi Pratt in all her fluorescent pink glory trotting up Diagon Alley, screaming full blast at her errant children as they ran amok, aided and abetted by Felix, of course. It was like she'd landed from another planet.

Many of the other denizens of Diagon Alley obviously felt the same way and had stopped in their tracks to stare at the spectacle unfolding before them, one horrified mother covering her young son's eyes.

"TYLER! How many times have I told you about setting things on fire!" Trudi screamed as she shimmied her boob-tube back up to a relatively more decent height, "get here, you little shit!"

"Maybe we should, ah, go to Flourish and Blotts and get her off the alley," Timothy suggested through gritted teeth as Trudi stormed back towards them, her orange lips pursed in barely contained rage as she dragged her screaming son along, Tiffany and Felix trailing along behind her.

"Will I ever be able to look Mr Flourish in the eyes again?" Professor McGonagall asked, looking slightly frazzled.

"Don't worry," Timothy sighed, "just pretend you're not with her. I'll do the rest…Trudi, bookshop next."

"Right," Trudi snapped, "it better not be run by those little goblin creeps. That one behind the counter tried staring down my top, the pervy little shit!"

"I want a book too!" Tyler bellowed now distracted from his tantrum, "dragons! I want dragons!"

"You'll want a clip round the ear soon," Trudi shouted back as she stormed towards Flourish and Blotts, only slightly skidding on the cobbles in her strappy sandals.

"Dragons!" Tyler bellowed as he ran towards the bookshop, overtaking Professor McGonagall, as she tried to get as far from Trudi Pratt as she politely could.

Flourish and Blotts was blessedly cool and tranquil after the bustle of the alley and Timothy began to relax slightly. There was just something very soothing about spaces full of large quantities of books, the smell of paper, the way they muffled sound, their solid reassuring presence, the anticipation of an intriguing read…

"TYLER PRATT YOU GET HERE RIGHT NOW!"

Timothy sighed as he met Professor McGonagall's accusing stare, "I'll err, I'll go and see what she's up to," he sighed shuffling past the table displaying _New Releases!_ towards _Extreme Animal Husbandry_.

"If you think for two bloody seconds that me or your dad would let you have a bloody dragon…"

Striding round a bookcase, Timothy found Trudi berating her son by a display of books of specialist manuals more suitable for a dedicated dragon keeper than a small boy. Beyond an assistant stood transfixed, his thin face alternating between pasty pale and alarmingly red. Following the young man's line of sight…

What had Trudi been thinking when she dressed this morning. Timothy sidled up to his cousin. "Erm, Trudi," he hissed, "your, err, your top, its, err…" he gestured helplessly.

Trudi's head jerked down. "Well, sod," she exclaimed as she adjusted the boob-tube, so her lacy pink bra was no longer on display, "I knew I should have used that tit-tape stuff instead."

The poor sales assistant made a soft squeaking sound as he tried to get away unnoticed.

"Do you work here?" Trudi demanded as she stomped towards the terrified young man, "because my feet are bloody killing me and I need a shed load of books for my daughter for school…plus something on dragons for him," she nodded towards Tyler as she fished around in her handbag for the list. "Tim, have you got the bloody list?"

Timothy sighed as the young man finally noticed him, his face paling to a funny grey colour. "If we could have two lots of the set books for Hogwarts first years, that would be wonderful…and of course something on dragons suitable for a highly intelligent eight year old too, please. I'm afraid we're in something of a hurry today."

"Yes, yes, of course Sir," the young man stuttered as he backed away, before finally fleeing among the shelves.

"That was strange," Trudi said with a frown, "he seemed almost frightened."

"Just young and nervous," Timothy said as he looked around, "did you see where Tiffany and Felix went?"

"No," Trudi glared at him, " _you_ were keeping an eye on them remember."

"Fine, fine," Timothy huffed not remembering any such agreement. Reluctant to start an argument, he went to find Professor McGonagall instead. No doubt the dreadful pair had found something really unsuitable on hexes and curses and were even now poring over it while attempting to memorise the wand movements. Not that it would do them any good.

"Well?" Professor McGonagall demanded as he walked round the corner into the Transfiguration section.

"I got an assistant to help, so we should be able to leave soon," Timothy reassured her, "but we've still got Madam Malkin's, the Apothecary and Ollivander's after this."

Professor McGonagall closed her eyes with a groan.

"I'll quite understand if you wish to leave," Timothy said hoping she'd say no. Misery did love company after all. "I'll just tell Trudi that you had another appointment to get to or something."

Professor McGonagall seemed almost tempted for a moment. "No, no," she sighed, "I'll finish what I started…though I do appreciate the offer, young man." She gave him a small but warm smile.

"TYLER!"

Professor McGonagall winced. "She's utterly appalling!"

"Tell me about it," Timothy muttered, "I grew up with her."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The God-Emperor looked up in surprise from the data slowly scrolling across his monitor. It wasn't every day someone managed to sneak up on him like that. Obviously the results from the latest round of metal fatigue tests had been more intriguing than he'd initially thought. It certainly had the potential to make pressurisation of the shuttle-craft safer.

He turned to find Allesandor standing by the door, tall and intimidating, clad in elaborately decorated black robes that, combined with the Purgatus of St Seraphim, made him look like a high priest from some sort of B-movie Satanic cult. Not that he'd ever tell the man that.

Allesandor stared around the room his face expressionless and still, only the tell-tale shifting of his weight from foot to foot to indicate his nervousness, and a nervous Allesandor was never a good thing.

"Xander," the God-Emperor bounced up from his chair striding over to his biggest fan, "you're looking well. Like some coffee? I think I've got some biscuits left too." He draped an arm around Allesandor's shoulders and guided him over to a chair, ignoring his tension and unvoiced protests, and then got the kettle going. The remains of the biscuits he dumped on a reasonably clean plate while he fished a clean mug out from the back of the cupboard. "May the force be with you," it proclaimed. Excellent, not too cheesy.

Allesandor gave it a suspicious glare when he put it in front of him. "What is this force?" he asked.

The God-Emperor stared at him in surprise. " _What_? You've never seen Star Wars? Even with Felix around? That's _terrible_. I know…right, us lab rats get together every fortnight or so when we can and have movie marathon through the night. We always have popcorn, and pic'n'mix and pretzels even, and if you want to dress up for the occasion it just adds to the fun. The next one's soon," he gave Allesandor an encouraging grin, "and it's my turn to choose. So Star Wars back-to-back, and you're invited! It'll be a wonderful cultural opportunity for you."

Allesandor stared back at him looking utterly torn beneath his carefully crafted emotionless mask. "I…I accept," he finally said looking as if he'd agree to having his hands put through a wood chipper.

"Excellent," the God-Emperor beamed in delight, "anyway," he dunked his jammie dodger in his coffee, "you always have a reason for your visits, and it's never social…" he sighed.

"I…yes. My lord…" Allesandor began.

"Jon! Honestly, Xander, here and now I'm just Jon," the God-Emperor gave him an exasperated smile.

The constipated look of sheer mental pain Allesandor gave him was hilarious. If only he'd got a camera. And then Allesandor spoilt it all by scowling.

" _My Lord_ , the daemonic being that injured me," Allesandor winced in annoyance, "as you know, it was no accident. Mr Riddle had unknowingly been groomed from a young age by this cult to become the twisted monster he did, I am certain of it. I want to hunt them down, root them out and destroy them utterly..."

The God-Emperor settled back in his chair thoughtfully, interested to see where this was going.

"…but at present the tools I have at my disposal are limited to say the least. My Lord…I…a satellite for surveillance, my Lord, would it be feasible to build such a device to monitor outbursts of magic from Earth Orbit? I surmise it would be the most effective means of gathering the pertinent data." He looked up, hope shining in his eyes, despite his attempts to keep his expression stoic.

A satellite to detect magical outbursts; was that even possible? The God-Emperor considered the matter a moment. "You know," he said after a while, "I can actually detect large outbursts of magic myself, now that I know what I'm looking for. I could notify you every time I sense something, with an approximate location."

Allesandor nodded doing his best to hide his disappointment. He looked so crestfallen, the God-Emperor shifted on his chair feeling inexplicably guilty, chewing his lower lip. And he'd thought he was being so helpful as well.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Was it possible for one person to be so self-absorbed and dense they couldn't see when they'd managed to offend everyone around them, even those they considered their allies? Timothy shook his head in disgust, as he carefully read through the folder of information the Haitian Department of Magical Law and Order had thoughtfully provided, along with the extremely indignant Mr McGuire.

In a space of a month, the man had managed to break numerous magical and religious taboos, offended a leading member of the Haitian Magical community and had done experimental works on two vulnerable young men who'd merely been looking for a job, the sort of thing that had been banned under international treaty since Grindelwald and WWII.

All this on top of the unpleasant findings of the last year or so in the Knockturn Alley area; Mr McGuire's name had popped up several times in connection with all sorts of interesting things, including Augustus Crabbe's now infamous brothel.

This was most likely the twisted individual responsible for Felix's permanent physical changes, poor lad. Not that he seemed to let it hold him back. Timothy looked up at the sullen middle aged man who slumped in the chair on the other side of the desk in one of the DMLE's more secure interrogation rooms. It was a sparse space, the minimal furniture plain and utilitarian, the walls a depressing grey. Behind him was a window which let onto the observation suite where, Timothy was pretty certain, he was currently being watched by various members of the DMLE including Madam Bones, and Wulfric. The thought of it made his shoulder blades itch.

"Enjoy your trip?" Timothy asked, the scar through his lip twisting his smile into an ugly smile.

"Oh, fuck off," McGuire snarled slumping down as far as the manacles would let him. "Fucking amateur," he muttered.

Timothy ignored him. It was extraordinary just how utterly dull and boring McGuire really was in person. Average height and build, mousey hair, brown eyes and skin that still showed the signs of being exposed to the unfamiliar heat of tropical sunshine; McGuire was going to be very itchy in a few days time.

"Robert Calvin McGuire," Timothy gave him another smile, "I am Interrogator Faulks. I work for Mr Carrow and he's very interested in you." (Nothing like using the Big Lump as a bogey man.)

McGuire glared back, obviously not at all impressed, so he'd definitely not being following the news for the last few years or so. Shame. And now for the hard part.

"You used to live on Wig Alley in the Knockturn Area, after leaving Hogwarts," Timothy said as casually as he could, "No.4 Antipholus Terrace."

McGuire glared at him.

"According to your landlord, you had an experimental potions laboratory in your rooms, illegally of course. Quite a few complaints too…" he slowly leafed through the folder, "Aurors called to a number of disturbances with angry neighbours worried about toxic fumes…hmmm…and possible building demolishing explosions. Were you aware there was a parlour school next door?" he glared at the sullen and utterly unrepentant McGuire.

"Why should I give a toss," the unshaven man snarled, "about the grubby brats of some feckless trollops? Half of them barely had enough magic to warrant a wand even. Worthless, the lot of them, getting in the way of my work. Complaining day and night about the slightest things, the ingredients wasted, the experiments _ruined_ …" his jaw shut with a clack as he flushed, furious to realise he was giving any information away.

Determined to make up for his error, McGuire clammed up tighter than a constipated oyster. Grinding his teeth in frustration, Timothy thought; he could carry on with his list of questions, to none of which he would get any sort of answer if he wasn't careful, frustrating both himself and the DMLE. Could he change tactics? Use physical intimidation? Except that he really didn't have the build to get away with that, it would be like an aggressive stick-insect or something, not in the least bit threatening…not like Carrow, and that was a very dark road he was reluctant to go near.

Talking of dark roads there was always that mental exercise Carrow did, where he made him project himself out and enter Carrow's mind. He suspected that actually he wasn't really, that somehow the large man had created a sort of neutral area within his mind to keep him safe from the really horrific toxic sludge that he was pretty sure infested the large man's mental recesses.

So if he just pushed out as he normally did…the interrogation room receded and darkened as a constellation of bright fires came into view, that he instinctively knew were people, Wulfric tinged with worry and the scent of the wolf, the DMLE personnel frustrated and bored, McGuire…

He dove forwards like an Olympic swimmer crashing into the light that was the prisoner's very essence. He felt rather than heard the scream, a physical thing that spiralled around and away from him thorny and tangling like brambles. Wrestling and tugging, he tore into the muddle of gold.

Memories, where were McGuire's memories? Here? He touched a tattered streamer of mist…no, just muddled impressions of something…daily tasks…routine, maybe…teeth flossing?

He moved on, latching onto an impossibly sided shape that swirled and twisted as he tried to rationalise it…old resentment overwhelmed him, bitterness at the oh so superior purebloods in his classes. Oh, he'd show them, he may only be a half-blood but he was cleverer, more talented than they ever would be, more driven to prove himself…

He forcibly tore himself away, before he lost himself completely, the tattered emotion/memory trailing away behind him leaking green slime as it went. That had been far too close, this was ridiculously dangerous, far more dangerous than Carrow had ever implied, and wasn't that just _typical_ of the man. He needed to know where McGuire had been, what he'd done where, who he'd met and why…it had to be here somewhere. McGuire was supposed to be a potions master which required a high level of organization and control but this was a chaotic cluttered mess of shape and colour and sound…

Lunging forward he tore through a drift of things like giant grapes or maybe even sea urchins that skittered away squeaking even as they attempted to stick to him and leach into his mind form. He tore at them, crushing them, swatting away at the feelings that they sprayed out, despair, frustration, giddy elation, anger, sick satisfaction, jealousy…

Memories, where were they. He sank his fingers down into the colour streaked drifts below, an invisible smile breaking across his face. Got them. Impressions streaked past him, of summer days, a favourite swing, reading books, the grind of revision by candle-light late into the night, jumping into a swimming pool, the tedious grind of basic but money-making potions as his Master drank himself to oblivion upstairs, a successful experimental mixture as the surprised cat grew wings moments after wolfing down the dosed treat, and then…blast, frustration as it escaped through an open window…a walk, fresh air, open hillside, a heavy knapsack on his back…a tabby cat leaping off the desk in the Transfiguration classroom, transforming mid-air into the severe form of Professor McGonnagall…

No, back, left a bit, he dove back in…he'd found it, all the information he'd been after, the deals and experiments and dosing of unwilling victims for people whose names he'd never quite bothered to learn. After all they weren't important; it was always about the elixirs, perfecting their transformative properties, a liquid answer to the animagus transformation…and then the perfect deal. Oh yes, this was it, Timothy tugged at the memory gleefully following it along…and then the deal went sour as the DMLE busted the place swarming like red cockroaches all over his precious work, smashing and breaking things with their ignorant ham-fisted hands, his beautiful test-subjects carted away by small minded dullards, unappreciated for what they were…so he'd grabbed what he could and fled…

Howling in triumph, Timothy sliced through the thread tearing at it with teeth and claws he didn't realise he'd got. Tangling it carefully into a ball, he stuffed it into his mouth (did he currently have a mouth? This was all very puzzling, but he could always ask Carrow later couldn't he) and pushed away, swatting clinging filaments and strands out of his way, biting and slicing at the amorphous shining things like sea cucumbers that tried to block his way…

"Tim…Tim… _Tim_ …"

The interrogation suite snapped back into focus, Wulfric looming over him, his expression frightened, angry and worried all at once, a strange fusion thing. How did he manage to pack so much emotion into one expression? He opened his mouth to ask but everything went strange and fluid and _sideways_.

oOo

The light was so intense it felt as if red hot skewers were being inserted into his eyes. Groaning, he tried to swat it away, surprised when his movement was slow and sluggish. Where the heck was he? He squinted around at what appeared to be a small medical bay of some kind, a disapproving healer glaring at him from her work station. Well, that was sort of normal and reassuring.

"Finally," Wulfric said somewhere off to his left, his voice sounding far too relieved. Turing his head Timothy groaned as pain lanced across the front of his skull. What had he done, head-butted the floor? No wait, just an ill-advised attempt to extract information from an uncooperative person-of-interest, which meant of course that now he felt as if an elephant marching band was making its way across his skull.

"Mr Faulks," Madam Bones' voice came from his right.

Timothy winced. This was it, he had single headedly destroyed all Carrow's work building a cordial relationship with the DMLE. "Madam Bones," he croaked, steeling himself for the worst.

"Well, at least you remember who I am," she sounded positively relieved. Puzzled, Timothy tried to shift round to actually see her, cursing his missing eye. What was going on? Gritting his teeth against the pain, he heaved himself into a more upright position, trying to ignore the fussing and helping hands that erupted around him.

"I'm fine, honestly," he wheezed, more to reassure himself than anything else.

"Not for lack of trying," Wulfric growled, "I leave your side for _ten minutes_ and you nearly succeed in frying your brain. Do you have no sense of self preservation, or is this yet another thing Carrow's setting out to stamp out of you?"

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Madam Bones cut in to Timothy's relief, before Wulfric could really get going, "Mr Faulks, precisely what is this?" the Head of the DMLE held a carefully sealed jar up, the sort normally used to store memories in for archive purposes. Inside this one was a wisp of colour streaked something that thrashed and twisted against the walls of the jar, settling in the bottom momentarily before attempting to unscrew the lid. Timothy watched it with a frown.

"It fell out of your mouth," Madam Bones helpfully explained, her face deadpan but her eyes wary.

"Oh," Timothy shifted uncomfortably, this must be… "it's a memory, or possibly multiple memories that I managed to retrieve from McGuire's mind. Have you tried watching it yet?" he asked as the thing tried growing spikes in a futile attempt to punch holes in the lid of the jar.

"That's a memory?" Wulfric said dubiously.

"Not like any memory I've ever seen," Madam Bones gave the struggling thing a glare, "and believe me when I say I've seen more than a few in my time." She pinned him with a penetrating stare. "Precisely what did you do to McGuire?"

Timothy sighed unhappily; here it was, crunch time. "I entered McGuire's mind. I wasn't having much success with more conventional methods and…so…I got frustrated and…Madam Bones, I apologise, I've jeopardised the case and…"

"You _entered_ his mind," Madam Bones leaned forward her eyes sharp, "legilimency?"

"Legilimency?" Wulfric echoed, "I've never seen it do that before."

Timothy gave them a puzzled look. "I've vaguely heard about it, the odd obscure reference in the Library at Hogwarts with regards to wandless magic and the like, but nothing specific to what it was. Is that what Carrow's been teaching me?"

"Carrow? Of course," Madam Bones growled in frustration, "the man is utterly brilliant at what he does, but sometimes I would really, really like to strangle him."

"Join the queue," Wulfric muttered. Timothy hid his snort of laughter as a cough; just in time too, considering Madam Bones' disapproving glare.

"So, what aren't you telling me?" Timothy asked, "I remember projecting out of my body as Carrow taught me to and entering McGuire's mind, found _that_ ," he nodded at the jar where the memory was still objecting to its capture, "and then I left," he drifted off as he took in Wulfric's and Madam Bones' strange expressions.

"The first thing we knew something was wrong was when McGuire began screaming and trying to claw his own eyeballs out," Wulfric said slowly, "and you were far too still, so we entered the interrogation room and erm…" he swallowed thickly.

"You were bleeding," Madam Bones said watching him carefully, "from your nose mainly but there was a certain amount from your eyes and ears. You looked like something from a horror story." She chuckled grimly. "Please don't do whatever it is that Carrow has taught you to do again. I really would prefer not having to arrest you for illegal mind magics if at all possible."

Timothy blinked in surprise. "Erm, I, err, did find out the location of a lab he helped set up six months ago there abouts. I'm pretty certain it's not one we've visited yet either."

oOoOoOoOoOo

"You're distracted," the most senior Arithmancer Lettice Strange said.

The God-Emperor jolted out of his troubled thoughts, looking round to find her hovering over him obviously concerned.

"I suppose I am," he said shoving an exasperated hand through his dark hair.

"Knut for your thoughts?" Strange asked as she rifled through some papers.

The God-Emperor slowly swivelled his chair to face her, "Xander…Allesandor," he clarified at her puzzled expression which quickly turned to one of understanding. Amazing how just saying the man's name got that sort of reaction.

"Allesandor came to me with a proposition," the God-Emperor explained. Would explaining this make him feel better? Hopefully…

"And…" Strange prompted.

"He requested a way of monitoring outbursts of magic across Europe."

Strange froze. "How? That would take…unless there's some muggle way of doing it…like a satellite maybe. Could we build a satellite, one capable of measuring magical activity from orbit? That would be…that would be amazing," Strange said an excited gleam in her eyes. "Think, we could push the study of ley-lines forward by _decades, centuries_ even _…_ and then there's the other great mystery of magic that we might just be able to resolve, is it some strange characteristic of planet Earth? Will we be able to use our wands on the moon? Is it one of the intrinsic forces of the universe? Honestly, Jon, only just a few years ago I wouldn't have thought to even ask these questions…it'll be wonderful to have a satellite. Can we call it Mabel?"

The God-Emperor looked at her, feeling distinctly off kilter. "Erm.." he managed.

"Fantastic," Strange burbled with excitement, "I'll just go and round up the others and tell them the good news, and then we can rustle up some ideas for this satellite." She strode away whistling cheerfully.

The God-Emperor almost groaned, letting his head fall to the desk with a small thunk. It was official; he was doomed.

oOoOoOoOoOo

" _Leeds?_ What the hell are we doing in _Leeds_? This must be the most unmagical place I've ever seen in my life," Auror Hewitt grumbled in disgust as he glared around at the rundown triangle of ground tucked between the railway raised up on a viaduct and a series of derelict Victorian industrial buildings. The whole area was a sea of dirty red brick and cracked concrete as far as the eye could see, the sky above a miserable grey.

It was rather painful to have to agree with Auror Hewitt, but, Timothy thought the man did have a point, just for once, maybe a little.

A train rattled past above, a two carriage affair, something small and local and slightly grimy; probably an afternoon commuter train.

"Don't even know why you lot are here," Auror Hewitt glared at Timothy getting right up into his face, "you'd better not pull a stunt like last time, muggle weapons and stuff." He glared at Chuddy, who was holding his Solaris energy rifle at the ready. "You're just a bunch of civilians, muggles too," he sneered at Chuddy and the others, "get in our way and I'll have you all banned and obliviated. Shouldn't be too hard." He flounced off.

"What an arse-hole," Athena said slightly too loudly.

"Totally," Chuddy muttered.

"Do we get to move in yet?" Juno asked.

"Before _they_ lose the element of surprise," Athena added.

Timothy sighed heavily, this was going to be a long day, he could just tell.

"Are we taking bets on how badly they mess up now?" Juno enquired.

"Two beers says they let some of these idiots escape," Chuddy said.

"Right you lot," Timothy gave them a disapproving glare, "we're going in through the back." He stalked off, his underlings following him like little ducklings past the sullen and suspicious Auror team.

"That looks brand new," Chuddy commented when they arrived at their destination several streets away. Timothy had to admit the relatively new steel reinforced door did look rather incongruous in comparison to the shabby derelict nature of the rest of the building. It looked as if someone had made an attempt to make the run-down building more secure. Shame they'd installed it with the hinges on the outside.

"Blasting hex?" Athena asked hopefully.

"Or we could try out some of R&D's new gadgets. A little more discreet I think," Timothy said as he checked his Browning one more time, "Chuddy, if you would."

Chuddy sidled up to the door with a smirk, pulling a couple of small packages out of a pouch on his assault vest. Stripping their backing off, he carefully moulded them over the exposed hinges, pressed the activation buttons and scuttled back round the corner to join them.

A muffled whoomph echoed around the narrow back street a moment later.

" _Now_ ," Timothy snapped charging round the corner his gun held at the ready. The mouldable explosives seemed to have turned the door and part of the wall into gravel which was now slewed across the cracked tarmac of the pavement. Ploughing through it, Timothy dived into the space beyond, blinking rapidly as his eye adjusted to the gloomy interior.

Movement loomed up in his right, and startled, he spun round, the Browning barking in his hands before he could even think. The man in dingy grey robes slumped to the floor clutching at his chest. Timothy shot him in the head for good measure, stepping over the body. He paused mid-stride with a frown.

"Looks like a prison tattoo," Juno helpfully commented, as Timothy crouched down to more closely examine the marking on the webbing between forefinger and thumb of the dead man's hand.

The mark of Saturn had been crudely executed with black ink. "And a needle…or maybe a quill if he was really desperate," Timothy muttered to himself.

"Can we bloody get on with it," Chuddy hissed, " _before_ we get ambushed. Please."

"Yes, yes of course," Timothy shook himself from his thoughts. Beyond was a door, and to the left the foot of a crummy looking stairs, which reached up into the dusty gloomy space above.

On the other side of the door, the shouts and bellowed commands of the Auror team could be clearly heard.

"We go up," Timothy muttered to Wulfric and Juno. They nodded grimly, and to his indignation, slipped past him taking point. "I'm not delicate you know," he grumbled as he followed them.

Chuddy sniggered quietly behind him, a clattering echoing up the stairwell as Bradley stumbled on the stairs. Timothy ignored it; the lad was still rather clumsy, but he was improving by leaps and bounds. It seemed to be a confidence thing.

The stairs curled round on itself in a series of dog-legs making the journey upwards nerve wracking as they sidled upwards as quickly and quietly as they could. The next floor appeared to be abandoned, the door long missing, revealing a rubbish strewn empty space coated in dust. Pigeons had got in at some point, and now a little row of them sat on the remains of a shelf, watching the invaders suspiciously.

"Nothing here but psiticosis," Chuddy muttered, eyeing the pigeons suspiciously.

"They're pigeons," Juno sighed as they advanced further up the stairs, "psiticosis is parrots."

"And that's only if you lick the bottom of the cage or breath their shit in," Athena added with a grin. Chuddy groaned in disgust.

"Focus, people," Timothy growled.

The next floor proved to be considerably more exciting. He could almost sense something, a tickling on the edge of his senses which had him so distracted he nearly took a blasting hex to the head. Fortunately, Juno knocked into him from behind, shoving him down onto the stairs, allowing the hex to sail harmlessly over their heads and crash into the wall beyond. Timothy had a feeling that if the building hadn't been structurally unsound before, it was certainly going to be when they'd finished with it.

Chuddy shot the idiot several times, Wulfric sending a slew of cures through the doorway beyond his slumping corpse. Considering the screams and shouts, they obviously found their targets.

Wulfric seized his opportunity, and dived through the door, Chuddy close behind him. Heaving up off the stairs, Timothy stumbled after them as quickly as he could, Browning at the ready. The room beyond was disappointing; other than the newly deceased bodies, it was as scruffy and unremarkable as the rest of the place, except someone had taken the time to haul half a dozen tubular steel and plastic chairs up here along with, for some strange reason, a pool table.

"That must have been a right sod to get up here," Athena nodded towards it, as they carefully looked round.

"Is it worth going further up?" Bradely asked. "Look," he pointed nervously to several holes in the ceiling which clearly went through to the very top floor above.

"Yes. We're doing this properly, by the book," Timothy said, jaw set grimly as he headed back to the stairway.

"More bloody pigeons," Chuddy muttered.

oOo

They were nearly off the stairs when the two people in beige over-robes stampeded past, shouts of _freeze_ and _stop_ chasing after them as some of the Auror team gave chase. The two were so intent on escape that they only flinched and ducked at the gunfire that splashed around them as they dived out of the ruined remains of the back-door.

"After them," Timothy roared as he leapt down the last few steps barrelling through after them. But the escapees were fitter than they looked, and had already made it to the corner of the narrow back-road. Snarling under his breath, Timothy sprinted after them, great coat flaring dramatically around him. He was nearly to the corner when he heard a double pop as the two apparated away.

Swearing he skidded around the corner to find…nothing. The narrow little street was empty other than an abandoned car further up, its tyres sadly deflated, leaving it sitting on the road on its wheel rims.

"Well, bloody…" he growled wordlessly to himself, as he kicked a stone in frustration. There was nothing to be done, unless Auror Hewitt had some specialists who could actually trace apparition signatures, but he doubted it. Fuming gently, he made his way back to the old warehouse.

"…and stay over there, before I have you thrown out, you bunch of stupid muggles," Auror Hewitt's voice filtered through to the dilapidated stairwell. Timothy bristled in outrage.

"…bet you don't even know what a crime scene is, considering the number you've trampled all over," Hewitt was laughing now as Timothy strode through into what had evidently been used as a storage area with a promising looking office bit off to the side.

"…barely stand upright, bunch of magic-less idiots…"

Sneering, Timothy stalked forward until he was right up in Auror Hewitt's face. "How dare you talk to my people like that," he hissed, "they are highly trained professionals and deserve your respect and consideration…and really Auror Hewitt, anti-muggle prejudice? I would have thought that with your much vaunted experience, you would be well aware of the complexities of the non-magical world. Well?"

Glowering nastily, Auror Hewitt tried to back away by Timothy followed him. "Complex , the muggle world? Are you having a laugh? They're all just a bunch of violence obsessed…murdering…"

"Careful," Timothy narrowed his eye, "wouldn't want people to think you're prejudiced against the non-magical."

Auror Hewitt ground his teeth, his face flushing darker with repressed rage. "You think you're so bloody special, don't you. Well, the only thing special about you is that bloody half-giant that you spend most of your time hiding behind. Without him, you're just some jumped up little muggle-born."

"I don't care what you think of me," Timothy growled, "I can assure you I've heard it all before," he smiled nastily, enjoying Auror Hewitt's flinch, "but I do object when idiots get in the way of my work. Wulfric, take Chuddy and Bradely and collect any paperwork, documents, journals, everything written, I don't care how trivial. Box it all up, we're taking it with us."

Behind him, he heard Wulfric and the others running to comply.

"They can't do that," Auror Hewitt snarled, utterly incensed, "stop them. This is a crime scene. You don't have the authority to do this!"

Timothy looked at the man as if he'd gone mad. "I am the Acting Senior Under-Secretary, personal secretary to the Senior Under-secretary. I can assure you I most certainly do have the authority. Wulfric," he added, "if any one tries stopping you or interfering in any way, _deal_ with them in any way you see fit."

"Now," he turned stalking away, Juno and Athena falling in behind him, "I'm going to inspect the basement."

"Basement?" Auror Hewitt stormed after him, "there's no basement," he snapped, sounding rather desperate as he tried barging in front. Timothy ignored him, shoving him out of the way as he made straight for where McGuire's memories clearly informed the stairs should be. Another member of the Auror team tried blocking is way, but a snarl and a mental shove got rid of them. He trotted down the steep brick steps, careful of their worn condition, slowing as he reached the bottom.

He wasn't entirely sure how he knew but there were living beings down here, and not the Auror team either. He put the Browning at the ready, cautiously easing forward. Now, what would Carrow do? Why the heck was he even thinking that? Carrow would likely do something outrageous resulting in piles of bodies.

The stairs led onto a narrow barrel vaulted corridor, along which were several rooms, some of which appeared to be more offices, no doubt stuffed with more useful information and data. More important stuff he could quite legitimately lift from the DMLE team.

"You want us to clear them out, sir?" Juno asked, obviously not overly thrilled at the prospect.

"Yes, in a moment, but first…the main lab should be along here." Timothy carried on down the passage to where it widened out into the laboratory proper. It was as terrible as he suspected. Along one wall was a row of cages, the sort more commonly used for housing large dogs, but in this case currently housing people.

Some of them were even still alive, though Timothy was pretty certain that they wished they weren't. He'd seen more than a few horrendous things thanks to Carrow, but this was definitely vying for top place. It wasn't that it was the most horrific, it certainly wasn't, it was more…it was so obvious, as he stood here, that these people had been caught and caged and examined and experimented on by other people, who'd then looked at their results before deciding to do even more experiments in a very deliberate and thoughtful way. Was he over-thinking this?

He swallowed thickly around the nausea that was trying to rise up, trying desperately to suppress his gag reflex. It would be so easy to just pull out his wand and cast a few cleaning and air-freshening charms. It would be a relief, but the Auror team _needed_ to see this.

Behind him, just for once Athena had found something even her strong stomach couldn't handle considering the retching noises. Timothy ignored her as he worked his way along the filth encrusted cages. The first couple appeared to be empty and had been given the most cursory of cleans. Mum would definitely not approve of such slovenly work.

The next one…he wasn't sure. There was certainly something or someone in there but it, he…she was curled on their side and so encrusted with dirt that it was difficult to tell. He could just make out the sharp angle of a hip bone jutting up, a row of vertebrae, painfully exposed ribs and oddly jointed limbs. There was no way knees should be able to bend like that.

Was this sorry individual still breathing? In the poor light it was hard to tell. Had their chest moved just then, or had he imagined it in the poor light?

In the next cage the occupant was most definitely dead, their eyes cloudy and half opened in their sunken emaciated face, that was framed by a set of curling horns.

Precisely what were McGuire's little friends trying to achieve here? Didn't they understand the need to feed people and keep them clean and warm and hydrated? And basically ask their permission first before doing major life-changing alterations to their bodies? Wouldn't these conditions have a negative impact on whatever it was that they were trying to achieve here?

Several more cages filled with human horror, either dead or not far from it.

The terrified eyes stared out at him from beneath the wild matted hair of the figure hunched awkwardly at the back of the cage.

"Hello?" Timothy tried, stepping forward.

The figure recoiled so hard its head hit the back wall of the cage with a clonk and a rattle as their limbs trembled uncontrollably.

"I'm not here to hurt you," he tried gentling his voice, "myself and my team, we're here with Aurors from the DMLE…to rescue you." But it didn't seem to work, the person so traumatised that any approach was terrifying.

"Hey," a hoarse whisper came from further along the cages. Timothy looked round; had someone actually managed to survive this hellish situation with their wits intact?

"Hey…hello?" the voice came again.

"Hi," Juno said as she walked past, slowly approaching the cage at the far end, "who are you?"

"I, err... I, umm…"

Timothy approached to find a person hunched at the front of the cage, fingers hooked through the wire bars, a woman he suspected, given the lightness of her voice, her red eyes wide and desperate.

"I…I…all I wanted was a job," her voice cracked into a sob.

"And they, whoever they are, tricked you into this miserable hell-hole," Juno gave her a sympathetic smile, "let's get you out of here. My mum has a cage like this for her Alsatian to sleep in…" She jiggled the latch on the cage. It stubbornly stayed locked.

"I've tried that," the young woman said helpfully, "it's a simple locking charm. If I had my wand…" she shrugged helplessly.

"Bloody magic," Athena growled.

"There's always some way round these things," Juno muttered as she examined the cage carefully, "here, help me pull this thing out," she grunted as she attempted to pull the entire cage, captive and all, away from the wall. Athena grabbed an encrusted edge and hauled. "When this is over, I'm going to bleach my hands."

Timothy watched feeling very much like a spare part as the two ladies hauled the cage free and into the middle of the room. Juno fiddled with the top before crying out in triumph as she lifted up the entire top.

"What?!" the prisoner looked up in stunned amazement.

"Yup," Juno smiled as she and Athena hauled the ex-prisoner up and out "these sorts of cages are designed to fold flat, for ease of storage, and erm, _cleaning_." She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the filthy cage.

Spring his chance to be useful Timothy cast a few cleaning charms at the young woman, handing over his great coat. "Here," he said, "your need is…"

" _What do you think you're doing?_ " Auror Hewitt bellowed as he strode into the laboratory. The prisoner visibly cowered at the large man's presence, slipping on trembling legs behind Juno for protection.

"What does it look like I'm doing," Timothy hissed crowding into Auror Hewitt's personal space, "my job."

"You can't just start freeing these people like that," Hewitt carried on, "they need taking into custody and questioning. Don't for a second think…"

Timothy span on his heel. "Young lady, you mentioned needing a job earlier and I just so happen to require an assistant, so you now work for me. I need all the paperwork, documents, anything written at all, on this floor collected on boxed up. Juno, if you would, please."

"Hey, stop," Auror Hewitt tried to obstruct their way actually looking slightly desperate now.

"Auror Hewitt, are you trying to obstruct the work of a Ministry Official?" Timothy snarled at the man.

Grinding his teeth in frustration, Auror Hewitt backed down.

"Oh, and I would get the remaining prisoners here to St Mungo's. They look in dire need of medical attention," he threw over his shoulder as he stalked past.

The rest of the Auror team, some looking slightly singed, practically leapt out of their way as they started work on the office areas. What was the DMLE employing nowadays? Honestly, talk about spineless. Maybe he should bring this up with Carrow.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

* * *

Author's Note

Sorry about the delay, real life intervened. There's nothing like covering someone's holiday with a load of ten hour shifts to put the kibosh on stuff.

Anyway, thank-you for all your reviews I appreciate them all, even the one word ones, so thank-you for your continued support and here is the new chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 3

The ceiling of the Great Hall was dark with clouds when they entered, a promise of rain in the air, the gloom only relieved by the multitude of candles that hung above the table doing their best to make up for the lack of stars.

"Looks like a muddy run tomorrow," Ron shouted above the noise of the other students as they milled around catching up with friends and finding their favourite spots at the House Tables.

Hermione gave the ceiling a distracted glance, tugging at the slim thread-covered braid that was the only remainder of her previously long hair. "Probably," she said, "new recruits this week as well. Wonder what we'll get?"

"We didn't exactly get many takers last year," Ron sighed, "bloody rest of the school must have scared them off…except Luna Lovegood…and, err…"

"She didn't seem to realise what she was getting herself into," Hermione said, "maybe we'll be able to persuade Dennis this year."

"Oh yeah…is he old enough yet? I thought he was starting his second year." Ron winced. "He won't be upset about his brother, do you think?"

Hermione gave him a funny look as they found places at the Gryffindor table. "Seriously, Ron," Hermione shook her head sadly, "the way that pair are, he probably thinks it's the best thing ever, and could you do it to him too, so he can have a matching scar."

"HEY!" An angry voice exploded next to them. "They can't sit here!"

The Defence Club whirled round, reaching for weapons that weren't there, to find Seamus Finnegan glaring at them.

"Hello, Seamus," Ron gave his fellow Gryffindor a nervous smile, "had a nice summer?"

Seamus glared at him. " _They're_ not Gryffindors," he snarled, jabbing an accusing finger at where Greg, Millie, Susan and the others had settled, camo clothing peeking out from under their school robes.

"So?" Ron shrugged. "Why should it matter?"

"'Cos it bloody does matter, is what. It's the Sorting Feast," Seamus attempted to get up in Ron's face, "and this is the _Gryffindor_ table, and _they're_ not _Gryffindors_."

"Screw you," Su Li shoved forward, chin jutting aggressively.

Seamus squeaked and dived behind Neville. "Keep her away from me! She's a psycho, nut-case, _lunatic_!"

"How rude," Su Li growled, "wait till…"

"Is there a problem?" Professor Flitwick's voice came from behind them, sounding cheerfully polite.

"Er, no, Sir," they chorused as they all attempted their best innocent looks.

"Good, good," the diminutive professor bounced on his heels as he smiled up at them, "to your House tables, if you would. We wouldn't want the feast to be delayed, now would we, as I'm sure you're all rather peckish by now."

He sauntered away, as the non-Gryffindors wandered off to their tables.

"So who's supervising our morning run?" Neville asked as they settled down again.

"Uncle Sev, I bet," Ron said rubbing his stomach, "wish the feast would start."

Hermione rolled her eyes in amused exasperation.

oOo

Normally right about now the Headmaster would be doing an excellent impression of a little ray of sunshine- Snape glanced surreptitiously down the High Table- but at present he looked more like a living thunder cloud, and at the Sorting Feast too. How very curious.

Whatever it was that was upsetting him, he was being very tight lipped about it. Even Minerva and Pomona working together hadn't been able to get anything out of him, and for some reason a bemused looking Lupin was sitting further up the table with Black at his side. New DADA teacher, or was he here for the History position? Now that was going to annoy some of the little toe-rags; no unofficial nap-time now. He smirked down the table. Lupin gave him a small smile back, Black glaring suspiciously, until Lupin elbowed him hard in the ribs. It looked like that was one dog being kept on a tight leash.

He sniggered to himself as he absentmindedly rubbed his forearm. The dark mark, the left over detritus of his foolish youth, had been slowly darkening over the last few weeks, prickling and tingling as it did so. Something wasn't right with it. He'd shown the Headmaster but there really wasn't much either of them could do other than observe the thing…maybe he should show Carrow when he got the opportunity…

On the other side of the Hall, the large landscape there was currently playing host to Brother-Chaplin Caius who was watching the proceedings with a particularly suspicious scowl, his eyes darting around the room. So far he was being surprisingly quiet.

A rustling by the doors caught his attention, and to his surprise Allesandor Carrow walked through, looking like a particularly stylish War Lord from somewhere cold and icy, what all the dire wolf pelts he was wearing over the suit of Goblin-made armour he was sporting tonight. Snape couldn't help but notice the paint stripping glare Dumbledore levelled at the oblivious giant as he strode impressively towards the high table, hand on the hilt of his sword, his ridiculous entourage following behind him, while Artemis trotted at his heels.

Not that Snape had any objections to some decent conversation during dinner, but what precisely was the Senior Under-Secretary doing here, sick leave or no? He gave Carrow a quizzical look as the large man settled in his chair, his entourage spreading about behind him, but Carrow just smirked and tapped the side of his nose, utterly failing to answer any questions as he settled back in his chair to talk to Faulks, who was looking increasingly as if he were carved out of granite.

The rest of the faculty seemed less than impressed by their very important guest. Probably not the greeting the first years were expecting, he thought, as he grinned at a glaring Minerva as she led the new first years into the hall. There must be some sort of widespread malnutrition going around that he hadn't heard about, because this lot were even more undersized than last year's offering.

The Sorting started off with no particular surprises, the Hat's song being particularly long winded and dull this year as it extolled the virtues of each house in yet another permutation. Obviously the centuries of coming up with these ridiculous little rhymes had taken a real toll on whatever it used for an imagination. Maybe he could give it some inspiration by feeding the wretched thing a thesaurus. Now that could be interesting.

He leaned forward as he spied a familiar pair of furry twitching black ears among the small crowd of first years. Oh Merlin, it was _that_ year. Searching nearby in the crowd, he found the other half of the dreadful duo, a jaunty blue bow perched on top of her head. Oh wonderful, just the thought of Felix and Tiffany having more control over their magic to aid them in their mischief…but of course there was a parent on staff. Snape gave Carrow a sideways look; oh yes, if that pair got into trouble he knew exactly who he was going to palm them off on to.

It was almost amusing the way Tiffany practically ran to the stool and plonked herself down, the heels of her muggle trainers still managing to flash despite the magically saturated environment.

A moment later and the Sorting Hat sank down over her dark curls. "RAVENCLAW" the hat bellowed, barely ten seconds later. Tiffany bounced up with an ear splitting shriek of delight as she wrenched off the hat, practically flinging it at a wincing Minerva as she proceeded to thunder round the table to fling herself at Faulks. "TIM! TIM! I'M IN YOUR OLD HOUSE!" she bellowed as she attempted to crush her sort-of-cousin to death, "I DID IT! I DID IT! I'M A RAVENCLAW TOO!"

Snape could vaguely hear Faulks making congratulatory sounds under the general din; and Minerva's expression of resigned horror on the other hand was something to be treasured. Apparently the Pratt family had made an impression.

Another few years and they'd be playing host to Tyler the budding little arsonist. Oh joy, all the wooden things the little hooligan could try combusting. He could just imagine Filch chasing after him, flinging aguamenti charms.

He rolled his eyes as the fuss around Tiffany died down and the Sorting continued. As Felix sat himself down on the stool, glaring at any strange looks he was getting, tail twitching irritably, Snape leaned over to Carrow. "Gryffindor," he said. "I see he still hasn't learnt to tie his shoe laces."

Carrow gave a snort of laughter, a deep rumbling sound that caused some nearby students to startle.

"GRYFFINDOR" the hat bellowed decisively.

"How did you know?" Carrow frowned down at him.

"His fearless nature," Snape shrugged.

"His sheer bravery," Faulks murmured behind them.

"True, true," Carrow said, "I admit I had been considering Slytherin or Ravenclaw due to his more manipulative survival instincts, plus his intelligence and studious nature…when he applies himself, of course."

"Looks like bravery trumps them all," Snape said as the Feast finally got underway. It was strange, but their end of the High Table was the noisiest, his colleagues being uncharacteristically quiet this year, concentrating on their meals with stony faces and concerned glances at the Headmaster. Apart from Lupin and Black of course, who just looked bewildered, but when did either of them have a clue?

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Settling back, Ron let out a large burp. "Ah, that's better," he smiled happily, ignoring Hermione's disgusted look. "Could you pass me the steak and kidney pudding, Nev...ah, thanks. I don't know what the house elves have put in it tonight, but this is just amazing."

Neville just grinned and shook his head as Ron tucked into thirds, Hermione shaking her head in exasperation.

"Wonder why Mr Carrow is here?" she said looking up at the High Table speculatively. "There should be two empty teaching positions, after all…Neville, did you get that Manticore head stuffed in the end?" she asked suddenly, ignoring Ron's rather basic table manners.

Ron looked round with interest, as Neville went rather pink. "Er, yeah," he grinned, as he poked at a roast potato, "yeah, but I forgot about it so err…when it got delivered, Gran got a bit of a surprise."

Snorting with laughter, Ron nearly inhaled a chunk of pastry.

"She was okay with it after I'd explained," Neville said as he thumped Ron's back. "Actually," he grimaced, "she got down-right scary, insisted on hanging it in prime place in the dining room, right over the mantel."

"That's nice," Hermione smiled.

"Yeah, certainly makes meal times more interesting," Neville said, "Mr Carrow had it posed…sculpted, I suppose, with…like a huge grin," he tried to demonstrate, "it's just got so many teeth, and, err…well Gran keeps showing it off to her luncheon club. I've never seen her so happy. It's _scary_."

"Like _smiling_ and everything?" Ron paused in the consumption of a large helping of Sussex Pond Pudding and custard, face scrunched up in consternation. "I can't imagine your Gran smiling, it seems unnatural," he shuddered dramatically.

"And she had a massive row with Uncle Algie," Neville carried on, "who made it very clear he didn't really appreciate having something with that many teeth grinning behind him at breakfast, no matter how dead their owner was…"

"And?" Hermione gave him a questioning look. "That can't possibly have been the end of it."

"No, no, it wasn't," Neville nodded, "Gran even suggested he go to St Mungo's to get checked out for Magical Senility. As you can imagine that went down really well."

Ron and Hermione exchanged looks.

"Then, err…" Neville carried on.

"There's more?" Ron said.

"Oh yes," Neville said with a nervous laugh, "erm…Gran came down one morning really early to find Uncle Algie attempting to remove it from the wall. She went berserk, and chased him round the house, hexed him right proper too. Seriously he had tusks, and antlers, and even a small _tree_ growing out his backside…I've never seen anything like it," Neville said wistfully.

"So…good summer then?" Ron asked.

"Yeah," Neville grinned, "the very best."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

As the meal ground to a surprisingly civilised halt, the Headmaster moved to the podium for the usual start of year announcement.

"Just a few items of note before you can leave for your beds, at the end of what, I'm sure, has been an exhausting day," Dumbledore said as he managed to summon up the ghost of a smile for the students.

"The usual warnings about the Forbidden Forest apply," Dumbledore said, "it is forbidden, unless you are being supervised by a teacher or are a member of the Defence Club."

A ripple of sniggers spread across the Hall. "The list of banned items is available for viewing on Mr Filch's office door. I recommend a look as it is really quite remarkable. Fanged Frisbees are a recent addition, as are flick-knives," Dumbledore said, obviously warming up to this, his most favourite time of the school year. "I regret having to say this, yet again, but Necromancy, Black Magic and all related Dark Arts are banned on School grounds, supervised or otherwise. We don't want a repeat of poor Professor Binns, now do we?"

"What?!" Snape distinctly heard Black mutter.

"Ah yes…Mr Filch has also asked me to remind the Defence Club that the open carrying of weapons in between classes is not appreciated, nor are mock duels. Please desist in both these activities or there will be repercussions."

Dumbledore gave the gathered students a severe look. Snape sighed as he gazed up at the ceiling; might as well ask rain to fall uphill, and really, was it that much of a problem? As long as they didn't kill each other…

"…announce a few new appointments."

Snape leaned forward eagerly. Now this was definitely of interest.

"As I'm sure most of you will remember," the Headmaster carried on, "Professor Binns left us under rather murky circumstances. So it is with great delight I would like to introduce the new History of Magic Professor, Remus Lupin."

Lupin reluctantly stood to receive applause, which seemed most enthusiastic at the Ravenclaw table. Must be expecting some decent lessons for once, Snape thought.

"Professor Lupin," Dumbledore continued, "was, of course, the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor a couple of years ago, and I can assure you that he is just as knowledgeable of History."

Some of the Ravenclaws actually cheered.

But then, Snape thought, who was DADA Professor? He glanced up at Carrow…oh… _oh,_ he wasn't, was he? He began to break into a grin as some of his less dense colleagues began to realise what might be coming, Minerva looked particularly scandalised.

"No, Albus, _No_!" Minerva actually stood up and shouted, but the Headmaster hunched his shoulders and ignored her, as all trace of his early cheer vanished. Snape ducked down to hide his grin. Oh, this was going to be hilarious.

"I would also like you to welcome this year's Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor," he paused, visibly trying not to grind his teeth, "another returnee to Hogwarts, who I'm sure you all remember…Allesandor Darius Carrow."

The Defence Club leaped to their feet and climbing on to the benches, howling and cheering, drowning out any protests, as more than a few of their compatriots burst into tears or sat stony faced in shock, leaving the first years looking bewildered, puzzled and scared. Carrow's appearance probably wasn't helping either, Snape thought, as the large man rose from his chair and strode around the table, looming beside the Headmaster.

"I have a few things I would like to announce, if I may?" Carrow rumbled.

"Of course," the Headmaster said, looking as if he'd swallowed a particularly sour lemon.

Carrow nodded, apparently happy. "I look forward to seeing you all in class," he rumbled to the gathered students. One of the Hufflepuffs actually whimpered, Snape observed admiringly.

"To improve your performance, I am organising a run every morning at 6.30am. I look forward to seeing you all there."

It would be interesting to go along just to see how many of the little brats actually thought it would be compulsory, Snape mused. Yes, some early morning ingredients collecting in the forest was definitely in order this week.

"I will also be organising a shooting club on Sundays," Carrow carried on, ignoring the glares from most of the teaching staff, particularly the Headmaster, and the excited ooh's from the more insane Defence Club members.

"As some of you may be aware, I am the owner of Aquila Industries." Carrow looked around the Hall expectantly. "We are a new and _innovative_ manufacturer of non-magical weapons, among other things. As a result we have a thriving Research and Development department. Those of you about to take their NEWTs will no doubt be delighted to learn of a new apprenticeship scheme we will be initiating from next year. If you are interested in careers involving Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Warding, Herbology, Defensive magic or Potions, come and see me for more information."

Snape watched in surprise as Carrow smiled shark-like at the students before returning to his seat. Trust him to turn this entirely to his advantage, a recruitment drive where he got to spend nine months looking at all the possible candidates before cherry-picking the best ones. The Ministry was going to be furious.

"Thank you, Allesandor…and now let us sing the school song," an annoyed looking Dumbledore said, holding his wand ready, "pick your own tune."

But Brother Chaplain Caius got there first, booming out a hymn of joyous anger at the destruction of the Heretical and Xenos enemies of Mankind, Carrow eagerly joining in as a shower of bright yellow rubber ducks began to pelt down from the ceiling.

He could get used to this, Snape smirked to himself from under the safety of his hastily conjured umbrella; at least it was tuneful.

oOo

"Hey," Ron bellowed over the sound of the two Space Marines' thunderous singing, "Those Hufflepuffs, they know the words!"

"So do Fred and George," Neville screamed his mouth mere inches from Ron's ear.

Ron leaned forward to glare down the table to where his two older brothers stood on either side of his giggling sister, striking dramatic poses while they sang along.

"Er, no I don't think they do," he bellowed, "actually, I think they're singing that song about the hedgehog that always get Mum really, _really_ angry."

"So why do those Hufflepuff guys know this hymn?" Hermione yelled her face scrunched in a thoughtful frown, "I think we'd have noticed if we'd seen them hanging around Carrow's Chapel, so the only other place they could have learnt them is…him," she stared up at the large landscape that dominated the wall near the main doors, currently playing host to Brother Chaplain Caius who was bellowing out yet another verse about Humanity's divine right to rule the Galaxy.

"You've got to admit he is one of the strangest portraits ever," Neville yelled, "far too clever by half."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The rubble strewn landscape stretched as far as the eye could see, tainted and barren, a place he knew instinctively that no normal human being could survive in. Even the air seemed poisoned, stinking of something metallic and sweet, stinging his eyes and hurting his chest with every breath he took.

Above, sullen bilious clouds roiled, illuminated by sudden flashes of light but it didn't appear to be a storm…there was some sort of air-borne battle going on up there, some desperate struggle for survival over an already doomed world.

To his horror, his feet began to move of their own accord, propelling him towards a small ridge of broken rubble crowned by the remains of a reinforced concrete slab, steel rods stabbing up into the sky like broken hinges. Beyond…beyond…his instincts screamed at him to stop. Something unspeakable, some primal evil lurked beyond that hill and if he crested it…

He tried to change direction, even attempted to trip himself up, heaven knows there were plenty of opportunities here for that, all to no avail as his feet relentlessly marched on, his chest tightening, screaming in pain as his breath became more and more paniced.

A bright pillar of light lanced down through the clouds, the air ripping apart with a sound that was like a physical force slamming into his body, knocking the air from his lungs. Then the tidal wave of super-heated air hit him, full of dust and rubble…

Snape sat bolt upright in bed feeling quite unnerved, cold sweat trickling down his spine, heart racing a mile a minute. "It was only a dream," he muttered to himself as he scrubbed at his face, fishing his wand out from under his pillow finally relaxing at its familiar and reassuring weight in his hand. Casting a quick tempus charm, he found to his horror… "Bloody half four in the bloody morning," he snarled to himself as he slammed back onto the pillows. He was far too unsettled now for sleep; besides, by the time he did manage to drift off it'd be time for him to get up. Talk about pointless.

Damn it, he might as well just get up. Grumbling to himself, he threw back the covers and shuffled off to the bathroom.

He was on to his third cup of coffee when he remembered something that would actually improve his morning; Carrow's run, and just for once, it wouldn't just be the little lunatics from the Defence Club running around in the cold and the mud, the entire school had been invited. And since it had been Carrow himself doing the inviting…how many would turn out for it in sheer fear, despite still being exhausted from the previous day's journey?

An interesting question worthy of investigation; would exhaustion win out, or would their natural fear of Carrow trump all rational thought?

Grabbing his ingredients collection kit and his cloak, he set off to investigate.

oOo

At some point during the night it had rained heavily, leaving everything soggy underfoot, the grass depositing copious quantities of water onto his trouser legs and the hems of his robes. Normally he'd be annoyed, but after last night it was reassuringly solid and normal, the breeze coming off the lake fresh and crisp in the pre-dawn light.

Ahead lay the reassuring bulk of the Forbidden Forest, dark and silent, the leaves just beginning to show a hint of russet and gold. He'd got a little time before the start of Carrow's "fun run".

The leaf litter was even soggier, the branches overhead seeming to be aiming drops of water down the back of his neck with pin-sharp precision. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all, and apparently he was a week or two early for the particular mushrooms he'd been vaguely hoping for. Well, blast…

He glared around the damp trees, the oppressive feeling of the night begin to rise again. Rustling sounded above and to his left, leaving him flinching, wand in hand as a wood pigeon exploded into the air. A branch snapped nearby, the sound echoing off the trees. Snape whirled round as something came out into the clearing, something large and damp and _animal_.

"Wizard," the centaur boomed, glaring down at him, and looking quite perplexed.

Snape froze as another centaur stepped out behind him, Ronan, he thought. Certainly he'd had dealing with this particular centaur before…and then another one stepped out into the clearing, this one clearly female, eyeing him suspiciously as she gripped the hilt of a short-sword slung at her side.

This had suddenly become extremely dangerous.

"Centaur," he replied, bowing stiffly.

The centaur paced on the spot, dinner-plate sized hooves scuffing up the damp leaf litter.

"The Monster has returned," he intoned, glaring round at the damp forest.

The Monster? Snape blinked; what was the creature on about? "Do you mean Mr Carrow?" he asked.

The centaurs stared straight at him, their intense focus unnerving to say the least.

"He has returned to Hogwarts to take up the position of Defence Professor once again," Snape carried on, desperately keeping his face as smooth and expressionless as possible.

One of the centaurs twitched his tail, shifting restlessly from hoof to hoof.

"He's going to be resident at the Castle probably until next June," Snape added helpfully.

"The Monster has disrupted _everything_ ," the first centaur burst out, "the Heavens are all a-kilter!"

Snape opened his mouth to say something, anything to get rid of them, maybe suggesting they complain to Carrow directly. Now that would be interesting to witness.

But the centaur ignored him. "His star deviates from its course onto a path it had no business being, and now he affects the paths of others. Mars rises too early, far too bright, Jupiter rears in anger and Saturn responds, and Pluto… _Pluto_ …" The centaur kicked his back legs in frustration.

Snape backed away from the enraged creature, feeling a sense of relief when his back collided with a tree. Now if the bloody thing tried charging him he might have enough time to get behind some actual solid shelter.

"Worst is yet to come," the centaur continued. " _His_ star has risen, aeons too early. The future is spinning away from us, Potions Master Snape, and we are at its mercy."

"Have you, err, tried approaching Mr Carrow?" Snape offered as he very slowly and very carefully sidled into safety.

The centaurs stared at him in silence until he couldn't help but shift nervously. "I'm not saying he'd listen to you," he said, trying to mask his growing desperation, "but at least you would get to make your feelings known."

The first centaur shook his head as if loosening a thought. " _His_ star has risen too early. We were _never_ meant to witness it."

Snape watched them melt back in among the trees open mouthed, the troubling sense of unease worse than ever.

"There are mushrooms in a clearing not two minutes from here," Ronan pointed out before he disappeared. Startled, Snape inclined his head politely only to find he was now alone among the damp dripping trees and the very soggy leaf litter.

Two minutes from here? What were the chances it was more like six or maybe even ten minutes? Ruddy centaurs.

oOo

Mushrooms? Right. That was the last time he took advice off a centaur, bloody man ponies. Snape glared down at the meagre offerings in disgust.

Fairy Flax-Caps, a magical relative of the mundane (and much more useful) ink-caps; instead of going black and manky, these ruddy things would suddenly disintegrate in a shower of sparkles that had been known to be passed off as " _real genuine fairy dust"_ to the more stupid and gullible. You couldn't even make ink from them.

In fact, he could only think of one potion that used them at all, a ridiculous pranking elixir that only a first year would fail to spot, or stoop to using, though the effects were quite interesting, changing the hair of the victim an interesting array of vibrant colours with a distinctive metallic sheen, at the same time causing it to stand on end.

The real question was, could he trick Carrow into drinking it? And would it have any effect if he did? He seemed pretty impervious to everything else; maybe with a little tweaking…it definitely had possibilities.

A distant shout caught his attention. Was it that time all ready? He strode to the tree line to be greeted by the sight of most of the school stampeding past, led by Carrow who was casually bouncing along, the Defence Club close behind.

The rest of the students…a soggy miserable Hufflepuff trailed past, followed by a couple of his classmates, one of whom was limping. A chubby Ravenclaw struggled past a minute later, face purple, sounding remarkably like the Hogwarts Express.

Nott trailed past, his shoes hanging round his neck by their laces as he ran barefoot, his expression grim but determined. Snape frowned as he took in the raw welts on the lad's heels and toes. No doubt he wouldn't be the only one.

Oh, Poppy was going to be absolutely ecstatic when all the injured made their way up to the hospital wing. A slow smile crept across his face at the thought of Carrow being severely hexed by an enraged healer; not that it seemed to have much effect, which always seemed to annoy Poppy even more…

"STOP WALKING," Carrow's bellow echoed across the lake. Snape blinked as an interesting thought occurred to him. Wasn't Carrow starting the gun club tomorrow? That was going to put some kneazles among the pigeons.

Smirking to himself, Snape strode back up to the Castle, the sounds of misery and pain of the early morning runners helping to finally dispel the lingering unease of the night.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Timothy couldn't help but grin as he jogged past the dog walker. The small terrier yapped hysterically as he passed, fading into the distance as he turned the corner and ran alongside a closely trimmed privet hedge. It was all so blissfully _normal_. He'd even managed to persuade Wulfric that he wouldn't be in imminent danger running round the sleepy suburban streets of Godric's Hollow, so for the first time in what felt like months he was out completely alone. It felt so liberating.

Carrow was gone for an entire nine months, _nine months!_ Of course he would be returning for meetings, training with equipment he couldn't take with him and the like, but he wasn't going to be living there. The difference in atmosphere at the Lodge was phenomenal, everyone was so relaxed, one of the gardeners had even smiled at him this morning. Mind you, that might have had a lot to do with them not having to go through the morning ritual of chasing Artemis out of the tool shed with brooms.

He swerved around an older lady out and about on her mobility scooter, her little white dog glaring at him suspiciously from its place in the basket on the front. Further down the road were a couple of people in blue uniforms who had a rather frantic look to them.

Timothy watched them in concern as he approached; they didn't stop him as he went past. They weren't police…the RSPCA; he gave their van a curious glance as he went past. Not his problem, he grinned to himself as he jogged past.

There was rustling in the leylandii hedge alongside him, almost as if whatever it was were trailing him…

A rustling explosion of leaves, twigs and _something_ erupted out of the hedge barrelling into him, knocking him flat on the pavement, shoving the air from his lungs with a yell. The something sat on his chest, grumbling and huffing, before licking a very wet and hot stripe across his face.

Groaning in disgust, Timothy tried to sit up, swiping at his face and dislodging the creature that was affectionately pinning him down into his lap.

"What the…" Timothy drifted off in puzzlement as he attempted to recognise the animal. It looked a little bit like a cat, sort of, if you squinted and put your head on one side, but then it also had bat-like wings, and a long tail with spines which it was now carefully washing, and a strange mixture of fur and scales all in a dark inky blue as if it couldn't decide which one it wanted, so it had just gone for both.

Perking its ears up at his movement, it gazed up at him with big yellow eyes, its tongue still sticking out.

"You look absolutely ridiculous," Timothy muttered, noticing the overly energetic creature was wearing a collar with a bone shaped tag hanging off it. "Hold still," he growled as he tried to read the engraving. "Muffin? Seriously?" He shook his head at the naming idiocy of some people; hopefully their children hadn't suffered the same terrible fate. On the other side was a phone number, a local one by the look of it.

"Err…excuse me," A voice came from behind him.

Timothy twisted round as much as he was able, given his lap full of squirming bouncy creature. Obviously it was a juvenile member of its species given its almost puppyish behaviour. Muffin gave a startled burp, followed by a whoosh of super heated air that whistled past his ear by inches. He could actually feel his hair frazzle.

"What the _hell_?!" He glared down at the contents of his lap.

Muffin gazed up at him all innocent and wide eyed, before pouring off his lap and trying to make a bee-line for the road.

"Oh no you don't," Timothy snapped as he smartly grabbed Muffin's collar. Muffin objected strongly to his or her capture, wriggling, squirming and flapping her or his wings as he or she tried to get away, squeaking indignantly.

"Here, I've got a lead," the lady RSPCA person bustled forward, efficiently slipping a rope halter over Muffin's head, "there we go. Do you know him?"

"No, not particularly," Timothy glared at the blatantly sulking creature as he climbed to his feet. "There's a contact number on "Muffin's" name tag…must be some sort of experimental cross-breed," he growled in frustration. Just what he needed, some idiot producing mashed-up creatures in their garden shed for fun and profit. "Some sort of cat…dragon, maybe wyvern…I don't know, it's not really my area of expertise," he grimaced. The RSPCA people exchanged wary glances.

"Muffin! _Muffin!_ " a frantic voice called. Approaching, loping down the road came a lanky man in glasses and a tracksuit that was at least ten years old, "Muffin! You naughty boy, running away like that!"

Muffin hearing the familiar voice began pulling at the lead, squeaking and chirping in excitement as he jumped up and down wings frantically flapping. The man quickly clipped a lead to Muffin's collar, easily dodging the creature's affectionate licks. "You silly thing, honestly! What were you thinking running off like that," he cooed ruffling Muffin's ears, "thank-you ever so much for finding him," he smiled at them, "my little Tara would be devastated if she lost her pet…oh! Sir! Interrogator Faulks, Sir!"

Timothy held his sigh in, as the man turned the earnest gushing on him.

"…sorry Sir, that Muffin interrupted your morning. I hope he wasn't too destructive…"

"Do you have contact details for Muffin's breeder?" Timothy interrupted before the man could really get going, "I'd be very appreciative." So appreciative he'd pay the person a visit while fully armed just to make sure they were completely clear on his opinion on their activities.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"A handsome young man of your age should be married," Madam Longbottom went on, completely oblivious to Sirius's discomfort as he attempted to retract inside the horrible Wizengamot robes he'd been forced to wear.

"Or at least looking," Narcissa agreed from his other side, obviously enjoying his discomfort.

"Oh Merlin," Sirius moaned to himself; since when did _Cousin Cissy_ get all cozy with Madam Longbottom of all people?

"I know a number of delightful young ladies who'd be an excellent match for you," Madam Longbottom carried on, "young Griselda Parkinson for example, very talented at Herbology. Her greenhouses are simply marvellous."

Sirius stared at her in silent horror. He remembered Griselda from school; horrible acne scars, plus she seemed to almost constantly smell of dragon dung thanks to her practically living in the greenhouses because plants were literally her only interest in life. She was more likely to marry a succulent than a human being.

"Isn't that Cornelius's second cousin?" Narcissa asked.

Sirius tried to tune the awful pair out as they began to discuss pureblood genealogy in detail, something he'd taken great care as a child to learn as little about as he physically could.

"…Lucretia Boyle has grown into her looks very nicely, plus she's just recently come back from the Continent having gained her Mastery in Charms," Narcissa pointed out.

"Oh, I had heard," Madam Longbottom smiled, "yes, she'd be a marvellous choice, very intelligent young lady, and sensible too. Wasn't she in Ravenclaw?"

"Yes, she was," Sirius growled in frustration, "and in fourth year she threatened to castrate me if I ever came within a hundred yards of her ever again."

"Probably richly deserved too," Narcissa said tartly. "But that was years ago, Sirius. Don't be silly."

Frustration clawing at his gut, Sirius hauled himself to his feet. "If you're going to carry on like this, planning my future and all I'm going elsewhere."

Turning in what he hoped was a dramatic swirl of robes, he stormed off, looking for a gold-digging, harpy free corner to sulk in, until the Wizengamot session began.

"Sirius, your robe is rucked up at the back," Narcissa called after him.

Hunching his shoulders, his face heating up, Sirius stormed around the corner.

"Honestly, men," he distinctly heard Madam Longbottom say, "if they didn't have us to help them they'd walk round with their robes on back-to-front and their underpants on their heads."

oOo

He was still annoyed when they all had to take their places; fortunately the Black family seat was far away from either Cissy or Madam Longbottom, otherwise he might have had to spend the entire dull meeting as Padfoot. Actually, that was a really good idea, since then he could curl up on this rather inadequate seat and catch a nap.

Stinging pain bloomed across his right ear, and he barely managed to suppress a yelp of pain. Clutching his injured ear, he turned in his seat to find the elderly Lady Cromwell glaring at him, a roll of parchment clutched in one wizened hand.

Oh Merlin, Sirius sank down in his seat, why was that horrible old biddy here? It was bad enough all the times he'd run into her at home when darling Mummy had had her over for tea, scones, and house-elf beheadings.

"Concentrate, you silly boy," she hissed, "I've got my eye on you, so if you try any of those immature tricks you so loved as a boy, I will make sure you smart for it. Honestly, the torment you put your poor mother through."

"Poor mother, my arse," Sirius muttered before he could help himself.

The roll of parchment whacked across his left ear causing him to yelp in pain as he protectively clutched his ears. He was being physically assaulted; he looked frantically at those seated nearby, was nobody going to intervene? No, apparently not; in fact, some of them, supposedly upright members of society, looked as if they were trying not to laugh.

"Mr Black," a cold sharp voice rang out.

Sirius froze, feeling as if he'd been suddenly dunked in ice-cold water as everyone turned and stared at him. Worst of all, glaring up at him, was the second scariest person in the Ministry. Carrow, his darling dinky God-son, was, of course, _the_ scariest, but the giant psycho had been working very hard to turn his secretary/personal assistant/apprentice assassin into a miniature version of himself. Sirius suspected vile and unnatural torture was involved, because how else could someone who, according to Dumbledore at least, had been quite normal, nice even, turn into this frozen rigid monster?

Acting Senior Under-secretary Timothy Faulks looked like most people's idea of a vampire, gaunt and tall and stylishly attired in black, the only hint of colour his Ravenclaw themed sash. The velvet eye-patch wasn't helping either. Behind this avatar of doom, Sirius could just see the Minister who he couldn't help but notice was looking incredibly nervous, panicked even, and had the man lost weight recently?

"Mr Black," Faulks repeated with a frown, "if you would please refrain from your usual hijinks, unless of course you have something to contribute to the current discussion…"

Sirius frantically shook his head as he slid down in his seat. Maybe he should turn into Padfoot and then he could hide under the seat.

"…the new members of the Wizengamot an opportunity to introduce themselves," Faulks droned on.

"An excellent idea," Dumbledore smiled benignly looking up at the seated members. "As I'm sure many of you have noticed there are a number of new faces among us."

"Oh, yippee," Sirius muttered to himself, more boredom. Why hadn't he thought to bring a magazine or something with him? He winced as the roll of parchment poled him hard in the back of the head, followed by Lady Cromwell's meaningful growl. Honestly, he was going to have to invent some excuse or other to move the family seat or something, because he wasn't sure how much of this he could take.

"…Malcolm Brown, I'm a book keeper for the Cleansweep Broom Company," the nervous man adjusted his glasses with an awkward laugh. "Due to my being a cousin through the paternal line, I will be sitting for the Gibbon family seat."

A book keeper? He looked it too, Sirius thought, from the top of his boringly safe haircut, slightly thinning at the temples, to the tips of his utterly dull shoes, which though well worn, had been carefully polished for the occasion.

And who was this weirdo? He gave the woman who stood up an incredulous stare. It was like she'd tried to make her garments every single colour of the rainbow. Even her socks were stripy, her bright red shoes and very frizzy orange hair clashing nastily with her official Wizengamot robes.

"…lecturer in Sociology for the Open University. I must admit," she looked around the Hall, her multitude of silver, amber, and turquoise jewellery clanking, "I was rather surprised when I received the letter from the goblins informing me I was eligible to sit for the Lestrange seat. But what a wonderful opportunity," she smiled happily as she gazed around.

Lestrange? Sirius grinned nastily; Bella and her darlings would have had a fit…though the Open University? He'd heard of that before. Wasn't that that thing Allesandor seemed to obsess over during the summer?

A few others introduced themselves, a lady who apparently worked elsewhere within the Ministry but she was very vague about where, which usually meant either the DMLE or DoM. Then there was another really bewildered dull looking man, who blinked around him as if he were trapped in a particularly horrible dream and hopefully was going to wake up any moment now.

That was when the cowled figure stood up, shifting nervously as it looked around. "It has been a long time since I last set foot within the walls of the Wizengamot," he gave a wheezing sigh, "not since 1821, in fact…after my unfortunate accident, my eldest son took over the role of family patriarch before passing it on to his son in his turn. But now I find my family sadly diminished, just the son of a disinherited daughter left. 'Tis terribly sad," he sighed again, his robes rustling as he shifted. "I am Augustus Severus Prince and I will be sitting for the Prince seat."

Sirius stared, a slow smile beginning to spread across his face as he applauded enthusiastically. This was absolutely utterly brilliant. If only mummy darling was alive to see this, she'd be spitting fireworks, but not like that time he'd actually managed to charm her that way. He missed accidental magic so much.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The sound of desperation and heavy breathing filled the air, joined by the stink of sweat. Carrow looked around the class in disgust, hand gripping the hilt of his sword reflexively. Most of them were struggling through the basic exercises, faces alarming shades of red and even purple, their limbs heavy and clumsy with exhaustion.

"YOU DO NOT GET TO STOP," he bellowed at Finnegan as he whirled round to find the youth semi-slumped and motionless, seeming to think that a turned back was an opportunity for slacking off. Finnegan squeaked in fear before returning to his clumsy approximations of a burpee.

How? Why? He'd been expecting so much more from these children, a sort of more expansive version of the Defence Club, but no…they whined, they faltered and fussed, had no confidence in the strength of their own bodies…they didn't trust him to know what was best. He'd even had to pull one young man, Mr Zacharias Smith out of the Apothecarium where he had been hiding, thanks to tales of non-existent physical woes he had inveigled Healer Pomfrey with. Carrow had always supposed that it was the Slytherins who were supposed to be the conniving devious ones, not a Hufflepuff thing at all (as far as Hogwart's system of Houses ever made sense that was.)

"Grab a practise sword. NOW!" he bellowed, glaring as the students dived around him, the Defence Club in the lead. They expertly dodged Natasha's teeth from where she guarded the pile of weapons, racing back to their places. The rest of the class…

Sighing in frustration, he waded through to where Natasha sat, plucking her off the ground.

"Well?" he snarled at the staring students. "Are you waiting for an invitation?"

The students dived on the weapons in a panicked frenzy, a small squabble breaking out which he quickly put a stop to with a very pointed glare.

"Basic sword drills. NOW!" he bellowed, ignoring Natasha's playful chewing of his fingers.

Granger, Weasley and Longbottom leapt to comply, staying, he noticed, in a three as they took turns. The rest of the class…the rest of the class appeared to not know what they were doing. There were some vague (and terrible) attempts at copying Granger, but most stood around, despair, panic and exhaustion radiating off them, souring the air.

Carrow closed his eyes as he quietly asked the God-Emperor for strength. "Am I to assume," he glared at the nearest witless youth, "that you have not in any way practised your sword drills since last I taught here?"

"Er," Dean Thomas sidled backwards looking around frantically, "ermm…not really…not done anything with weapons since you left…Sir."

"So, you have not joined the Defence Club or taken part in their training?" Carrow glared at the recalcitrant Gryffindor with narrowed eyes.

"Er…no, Sir," Thomas muttered shuffling his feet uncomfortably.

"Why in the name of the Golden Throne did you not take this educational opportunity that has been offered up to you on a silver platter?" Carrow enquired through gritted teeth.

Thomas stared at his feet, looking highly uncomfortable and miserable.

Carrow ground his teeth in frustration. "Granger, Longbottom," he barked, "demonstrate pattern number one."

The two leapt into action facing off against one another, swords held at the ready. Granger swung her sword in for a strike, Longbottom blocking it and repeating the strike, the two rapidly picking up pace.

"Exactly," Carrow snarled causing the pair to grind to a halt, "now, any more problems?" he glared round at the class. They all scurried to comply, the results being of varying quality. Carrow sighed heavily at the sheer incompetence that he was witnessing.

"Why does it have to be so heavy?" Patil complained to Brown in a whisper as he stalked past.

Finnegan and Thomas were little better, their blocks and strikes sloppy wavering things as they half-heartedly went through the motions.

"Again," he growled as he stopped to examine their progress, hand gripping the hilt of his sword slightly harder than necessary at the pathetic display.

"Strengthen your wrists," he snapped at Thomas before turning to Finnegan, "and you, lengthen your stride. You will be knocked off balance if you stand with your feet so close together, idiot boy."

The Defence Club members were such leagues ahead in terms of technique and style the contrast was painful to observe.

"Second and third drills now," he nodded as Granger switched with Weasley so he could have his turn. The young man was filling out nicely, a sharp contrast to the distant and hazy memory he had of the lad when they had ridden a train together so very long ago.

A sob and a scream broke the strained and sweaty silence of the class. Carrow jerked round to find Brown clutching her hand to her chest, tears pouring down her cheeks as a frantic Patil tried to help her, the distinct tang of blood ghosting into the air.

For Thrones sake, Carrow gritted his teeth as he strode over. "Show me," he gestured towards the injury. Sobbing, Brown held out her hand to show…

"Merely a scratch," Carrow glared at the unimpressive wound, "continue."

"But..but…I'm feeling faint," Brown sobbed, "blood…blood…makes me queasy!"

Carrow stared at her in disbelief. "You are in distress because of the sight of your own blood?"

Brown nodded, sniffling wetly.

"UTTERLEY RIDICULOUS!" Carrow roared, the frustration of the day finally peaking. "A weakness to the sight of blood? How is it possible to have such a thing? I assure you, Brown, that I will cure you of this flaw, by the Golden Throne, I swear it!"

Brown stared up at him in a daze from where she stood frozen, clutching her hand to her chest.

"Now pick up your sword and resume," Carrow snarled.

Jerkily, Brown leant down, picking up her training weapon. Disgusted, Carrow turned back to the rest of the class, only to find them standing there, watching him. Seeing his expression, they leapt back into action practising their forms with exaggerated enthusiasm.

If the rest of the school year was going to resemble this, then he may very well end up killing something with his bare hands, probably a student. That's if he didn't manage to grind his teeth flat in the interim.

oOo

As the bell signalling the end of class rang out, Brown and her ilk stampeded for the classroom door. Carrow watched them flee with a sneer; bunch of spineless brats.

In a corner the Defence Club members seemed to be having a hushed but fierce debate, a bundle of papers being pushed from one to another. He ignored them as he returned the practise swords to their storage, checking the classroom for lost items or rubbish.

"Professor?" Granger's voice came from behind him. He turned to find his younger apprentice standing there looking unusually nervous, the bundle of papers, notebooks and whatnot clutched in her arms.

He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"I…Sir," she pulled herself together, straightening her back with a frown, "Sir, I have... _we_ have come up with an idea for a tournament that promotes the Defence Club and the skills we practise and promote. I… _we_ wondered if you would be our, err, staff sponsor for when we put it forward to the Headmaster…"

"A tournament," Carrow said eyeing the bundle of notes speculatively, "and you wish for me to look over your plans and ideas first."

"Yes Sir, that would be fantastic," she smiled brightly as she held out the bundle of papers, "I'd be ever so grateful. We brainstormed and I did loads of research over the summer, but …just in case I missed something," she gushed.

Carrow couldn't help but smile; the more Granger changed the more she stayed the same.

"Sir, erm, Allesandor," she sidled closer peering up at him seemingly concerned, "you do know that the Defence Club will take anything you throw at us, and enjoy it," she grinned, "but the others…they're never going to be soldiers, or warriors or even Aurors…they're just normal and really…they're never going to be anything more, and there's nothing wrong with that, unless you break them of course," she gave him a narrow eyed glare before turning on her heel and stalking off in a very passable imitation of Timothy.

Carrow watched her leave, a slightly uncomfortable niggle at the back of his mind; maybe she had a point.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"This all looks very promising," Roberts said as he leafed through the report, "the Colombians appear satisfied with the performance of the Cadia IV in all its variants."

"Doesn't seem fazed by anything, does it?" Dalziel interjected, "heat, humidity… _mud_ …"

"Wulfric proved _that_ nearly a year ago," Timothy growled, bored out of his skin, "silly idiot dropped one in a ditch in the dark. Took him over five minutes to find it. I suspect he summoned it in the end."

"Magic proof too," Dennis said from where he sat ensconced behind his laptop as he took the minutes for the meeting, "wait a minute…I should leave that out, shouldn't I…"

"Quite," Curtis sniffed delicately, "but it all means that we've got several other governments making discrete enquiries as to contracts. The Accounts Department are about as happy as they ever get…Franklin, _don't_ eat all the figgy-biscuits please."

Franklin gave her a guilty grin, sinking down into the leather upholstered chair.

The annoying man had already managed to eat most of the sandwiches too. Timothy sighed to himself as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair; at the rate the R&D Head was going, he'd be able to roll home. He suppressed a yawn as he gazed out of the rain streaked windows of the boardroom. He was getting too old for this sort of thing, his back ached all the time, and his hair …his _hair_ was definitely undeniably going grey. He hadn't realised until he'd got a good look at himself this morning in the bathroom mirror and seen all the silver streaks. It was official; working for Carrow aged you by twenty years at least.

"…which of course leads us to next year's Expo," Curtis gave the others a severe look as they suppressed groans, casting cautious glances down the table to where Carrow sat in all his glory, clad in leather embossed robes and elaborately engraved goblin-steel armour.

Carrow smirked back at them as he stroked Artemis's head. "Excellent. I'm glad you brought that up, because I've had a number of ideas for the design of our…"

"That's quite all right, Allesandor," Curtis interrupted, "I've taken the precaution of commissioning a professional designer to take care of that. I've checked their credentials and they've done work for this sort of thing before, so _understand,_ " she glared at Carrow, "the constraints and regulations that have to be taken into account."

Carrow glared at them rather half-heartedly, his arms crossed over his chest, cold eyes watching them carefully. Far too accepting by half, Timothy thought, as he watched him warily.

"So the big thing for the Expo is the new plasma rifle," Roberts said, "seriously…this thing actually works?"

"Oh yes," Franklin said around a mouthful of biscuit, crumbs falling down his front, "we struggled with the battery life at first, but we've managed to get it to something reasonable, plus we've developed a small portable solar-powered charger for it. Works pretty well, in fact, the field tests in err…hmm," he ducked slightly at Curtis's disapproving glare, "anyway, they were pretty conclusive."

"Right," Roberts shook his head, "it just seems all so…space-age, sci-fi to me," he gave them an apologetic smile, "still getting used to it."

"And of course we'll want the tank as the centre-piece of the display," Carrow said, obviously of the belief that this was a given.

"Tank?" Roberts looked around warily.

" _The_ tank," Curtis sighed heavily.

"Yes, the _tank_ ," Timothy groaned.

Franklin buried his face in his hands. "That _bloody_ tank," he wailed in a muffled tone.

Carrow glared at them at all. " _My_ tank is a serious weapon of war, both psychologically intimidating and an effective war machine, which is why it should be the centre piece of our display. It would be an excellent mascot for Aquila Industries."

"The best thing about that blasted tank is the main gun," Franklin groaned, "the rest of it…honestly it's like an A to Z of how not to build a tank. Some of the guys actually _cried_ because of it. I mean, rivets… _rivets_ ," he glared down the table at Carrow.

"Well, of course it's going to have rivets," Carrow glared back, "how else is the armour supposed to be held on?"

"Not a single sloping surface, either," Franklin threw his hands up in despair, "the thing's a bloody death trap. And then _he_ had it bloody gilded," he jabbed an accusing finger at Carrow.

"It's my personal tank," Carrow growled, "I need it to be gilded," he said as if it were the most logical thing in the world.

"Right…so no tank," Roberts said as he checked the meeting itinerary again.

"No tank," Dennis agreed as he tapped away at his laptop, "but definitely the plasma rifle...does it have a name yet?"

"Solaris," Curtis said, Franklin nodding in agreement.

"And the Cadia V…"

"Yup, just basic upgrades on the Cadia IV," Franklin explained, "we've improved the balance so it's easier in the hands and we've also slightly altered the bayonet fitting and improved the bayonet design. It's a proper survival knife now. Nice and sturdy."

"So you can stab people with it and use it for chopping firewood and gutting squirrels," Timothy said.

"Exactly," Franklin smiled, "should be popular."

"A whole smorgasbord of ammo types…" Roberts continued, " _imploding_ grenades?" He stared around the board room. "How long before they get banned under International treaty, I wonder?"

"That is the million dollar question," Timothy sighed, "isn't it generally the cruelty of the injuries inflicted on people that gets things banned? I mean, land-mines rip limbs off and shower you with shrapnel, and once laid, they can be difficult to find and disarm…"

"On the other hand our energy weapons should cauterize any injuries they cause," Franklin said, "that's if they don't just vaporise you outright."

"Right," Curtis gave them all a stern look, "so now we've considered some of the ethical implications of our latest products, could we move on to the next topic of discussion."

Franklin leaned forward eagerly. "Now we've got an actual working and fully licensed Space-shuttle the R&D Department would really like to push forward with plans for the Luna base. We've got it all ready for transport and that, we just need the go ahead," he grinned as he bounced slightly in his chair.

"And I thought plasma rifles were way out there," Roberts sighed after a moment.

Dalziel shook his head. "This is…well…I don't know." He looked around, desperately trying to ignore Franklin's crestfallen look.

Carrow came to his rescue. "I think the time is right for such an endeavour, though it will be essential that more dedicated transport craft are built. The "Hammer of Justice" is _mine_."

Franklin perked up.

"Why do we want to go to the moon?" Curtis asked.

"Raw materials, mining," Carrow said, "if for some reason we are unable to acquire such things through the normal channels due to a siege, say, we will still be able to run the production lines."

"Under siege?" Dalzeil said slowly. "No, don't answer that," he waved a hand at Carrow, "I really don't want to know."

"So Franklin," Curtis sighed, "why do we want to go to the Moon?"

Franklin swallowed nervously. "Well, mineral prospecting and possible mining as Mr Carrow has already pointed out, but also research possibilities thanks to the unique environmental conditions…"

"You mean hard vacuum and not much gravity," Timothy interrupted.

Franklin ignored him, caught up in excitement, "…we're definitely thinking about a radio telescope, and also…space, room. We'll have much more room to test experimental devices and the like, large and possibly dangerous things we wouldn't be able to look at with our current facilities…like, we still don't really know what would happen if one of the pocket fusion reactors was breached…and I suspect the neighbours would object if we tried finding out here," he smiled hopefully.

"Isn't there some sort of international treaty or something with regards to mining rights and land rights in space?" Dalziel helpfully asked.

"Are they able to enforce it?" Carrow raised an eyebrow, his thoughts on the matter quite clear.

"Erm, currently? Probably not," Franklin said.

Carrow smirked, his eyes hard and cold.

"Like to see him explain _that_ to the UN," Roberts muttered.

"These ridiculous little governments shouldn't make rules and agreements that they can't actually enforce in any way," Carrow growled.

"Right," Roberts grimaced, "next topic."

"Ah, yes," Timothy shot Carrow a glare down the table, "British Eagle Airlines."

The others looked at him in puzzlement.

"British Eagle Airlines?" Dalziel asked, scratching the balding spot on the top of his head. "What's that got to do with us?"

Timothy glared at Carrow, who glared sullenly back. "Mr Carrow owns it, and somehow we've supplied the company two aircraft, with more on the way. I only found out because I went and did a little digging."

"And then Timothy came to me," Curtis pursed her lips in disapproval, "and we did even more digging, including paying them a visit."

"It was fascinating," Timothy leaned back in his chair, "they were almost as surprised to see us as we were to see them. Fancy that now." He gave Carrow a long look.

"So where are _they_ operating from then?" Dalziel asked, looking around the board room as if it would give him answers.

"Other side of the airfield," Curtis said.

Dalziel stared. "What…how?" Curtis could only shrug.

"Those extra air shuttles we made," Franklin scowled thoughtfully at the table, "the extras we made after Big Bertha, the ones Professor Schmidt helped out with…that's where they've gone, isn't it?"

Everybody turned and stared at Carrow who was looking particularly stony-faced and defiant.

"From an _Inquisitorial_ point of view, though, it makes a lot of sense," Timothy said thoughtfully, "a minor airline that flies to smaller airports and less popular destinations, some of them rather out of the way too, easily overlooked, particularly by any local magical authorities…it's an excellent idea, particularly since their fleet are made up of rather off-beat aircraft. Means when Big Bertha…"

"Hammer of Justice," Carrow hissed.

"…turns up," Timothy carried on, "she's far less likely to catch people's attention." He nodded at Carrow.

"That is very much my thinking too," Carrow almost smiled, giving him an approving look.

"It'll make hunting down that cult considerably easier," Timothy agreed.

"Timothy," Curtis growled glaring at him disapprovingly, "you're supposed to be on our side."

oOo

A huge furry paw snaked over the edge of the desk as it quested its way towards the plate where a few forlorn biscuits still sat.

"Artemis," Timothy sighed, pushing the plate out of her reach, "chocolate isn't good for you…at all."

Artemis made a soft huffing grumble as she nudged into him, her nose snuffling at the folders and paperwork he'd had to bring to the meeting. "Artemis," Timothy hissed in exasperation. There was little he could do to dissuade her now when she had made her mind up to do something.

The large cat gazed up at him, her blue eyes round and innocent, the tip of her tongue protruding. With a huff, she leaned against him.

"You're far too heavy for this," Timothy grimaced as she seemed to seek out the bruises on his ribs from the morning's training. Giving in, he buried his fingers in her thick plush fur, massaging behind her ears. Artemis closed her eyes in bliss, sighing in contentment.

"You're getting far too large," Timothy sighed, "but you're so beautiful."

Softly huffing, Artemis nudged his bruises again.

"ARTEMIS," Carrow's rumbling bellow drifted into the boardroom.

Artemis's large head swivelled round, ears twitching. With a rush, she pushed away from the table, nearly knocking Timothy's chair over as she stormed out of the room in search of her daddy.

"She is getting far too large," Maria Curtis sighed, obviously exasperated as she strode into the boardroom, "and the problems I'm having with tiger hair on my clothes…" She swiped at the legs of her smart trousers.

"Tell me about it," Timothy grumbled as he neatly stacked notes and reports, "all my clothes are black and it's like she knows."

"Cats! Just typical, doesn't seem to matter the size either," Curtis said as she tidied up her own stack of folders. "Just a little aside," she said slowly, "have you taken a walk around Godric's Hollow recently?"

Timothy looked at her in puzzlement. "Normally my life consists of working, sleeping and avoiding acute danger…though I did recently meet an experimental cross-breed of miniature dragon, called Muffin…I was jogging," he explained to Curtis's expression of disbelief.

Curtis shook her head. "The times we live in…no, try visiting the high street some time. I…a big company moving to a new home, it was always going to have an effect on the local economy, but I think…well, probably better that you see it for yourself."

"What's happened?" Timothy asked, not sure he really wanted to know the answer.

Curtis paused a moment. "We regularly have the police visiting because of the anti-war protestors. Over the last year or so they've begun to ask question, off the record, about other things to do with the company and our employees, so I decided to investigate a little myself. Really, I recommend you go and have a look yourself."

With that she left, leaving Timothy with an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Narrowing his eyes, Snape hid the tip of his wand behind the stack of parchment and files he'd been forced to bring to the wretched Staff Meeting, the first of many. His current target sat mere feet away, a plate of biscuits provided by the House Elves for the occasion. Now if he was quick and hid them in his muggle style ring-binder, he could swipe all the ginger nuts before Minerva could get her sticky paws on them.

With a twitch of his wand, the biscuit silently zipped across the table towards him. Carefully looking around to see if anyone was watching, he tucked it in his file. Lupin gave him a faintly amused smile, which he promptly ignored.

The over-sized chair next to him creaked as Carrow settled into place, depositing a large stack of books, folders and other assorted paperwork in front of him; some of it, to Snape's vague interest, was bundled together with red ribbon. Looked like they were about to be subjected to another one of Carrow's lunatic schemes. At least he wasn't going to be bored for the next hour or two then.

"…make the morning run compulsory for all students," Carrow rumbled on, an hour later, obviously frustrated, "despite my best efforts, their fitness levels are utterly abysmal. I dread to think how any of them would fare if they were ever put into an actual combat situation."

"Really, Allesandor," Dumbledore sighed in frustration, "is it truly that dire?"

Snape sighed as Carrow growled in annoyance, pointing out one terrible performance after another. "…one even attempted to emulate _fainting_. Absolutely despicable behaviour!" Carrow ranted, "I've had him in detention ever since, copying out texts on the importance of fortitude and duty."

"Do remember, Allesandor," Minerva said primly, "these students are only human. They lack your somewhat _enhanced_ physique and I must admit I for one am fed up with students arriving to class exhausted and nervous and not in any state of mind to _learn_. It's not acceptable, Allesandor, transfiguration is a discipline which requires the utmost concentration."

Beside her, Filius nodded from where he sat raised up on a pile of books. "Hear, hear," he said, "the number of silly mistakes my students have been making this term has been ridiculous, I tell you, and all because they're over tired!"

Carrow's jaw closed with an audible snap. "That's not the point, I _know_ they are capable of more," he muttered, as he crossed his arms over his chest and glared sullenly at the rest of the staff.

"With that settled," Dumbledore looked around the table, "the morning runs will remain an _optional_ activity…though highly recommended."

"Albus," Minerva hissed, "I'm fed up of my students turning up to class exhausted. It's making keeping them on track with the syllabus very difficult."

Pomona nodded in agreement. "It's not safe nodding off in the greenhouses. You have to be on your toes, especially when you get on to OWL and NEWT material. I've had to send students back to their common rooms, they've been so tired."

"It wouldn't be a problem if they actually took regular exercise," Carrow growled, obviously raring for a fight. Minerva and Pomona glared at him.

A series of sharp bangs halted the argument before it could really get going. Shame, Snape thought, as the Headmaster gave the would-be combatants withering glares. That time Minerva had attempted to turn the Giant Lump into a mahogany bureau had been a memory to treasure. It would be fascinating to see what Pomona had up her sleeves if she ever got the opportunity.

"Things will stay exactly as they currently stand," Dumbledore said, "and that is to be the _end of it_. Now," he cleared his throat smiling benignly once more, "any last questions, queries or anything of that nature?"

Snape began to gather up his things, wolfing down the last ginger biscuit as he prepared to make a speedy get away.

"Indeed," Carrow rumbled shifting the ribbon adorned bundle to the top of his pile. Snape slumped back into his chair with an annoyed huff, giving the giant man a vicious glare. When Lupin carefully hid a cough of laughter, he turned to let the blasted werewolf know just what he thought about the situation.

"Yes," Carrow carried on, "a student came to me with the most interesting of ideas. A tournament designed to test the defence skills of the students."

Snape rolled his eyes as the other staff shifted and sighed in exasperation; no doubt the "student" was Granger.

"An obstacle course filled with multiple traps, puzzles and challenges designed to push the contestants to the limits of their knowledge and test their resolve and tenacity. Miss Granger…"

Totally predictable, Snape sighed.

"…and her friends…

Now that he didn't quite believe; he gave the large man a sideways glance.

"…very helpfully put quite a bit of thought into their proposal, meaning I have had little to do but summarise it for you." He pulled a sheaf of parchment from the top of the ribbon bound bundle and passed it to the Headmaster.

Snape watched in fascination as Dumbledore's eyebrows slowly climbed up his forehead as he leafed through the parchment. Would they merge into the man's hairline or would they stop just below?

"I see," Dumbledore said finally, "Miss Granger has been most thorough… _Dungeons and Dragons_ ," he muttered in puzzlement, "goodness me. Well, this all looks simply marvellous…teams of up to six people. I see Miss Granger is insistent that teams should be able to form across House boundaries."

"And I agree with her," Carrow said, "it does well to foster unity within the school."

Dumbledore smiled. "I must admit I have noticed a marked reduction in hostility between the Houses over the last few years, mainly, I think, due to the hard work of the Defence Club fostering many inter-House friendships."

Carrow settled back in his chair with a smug smile.

"Though I suspect most of the rest of the inter-House camaraderie that has since developed," the Headmaster continued, "is due to a mutual loathing of the Defence Club."

Snape hurriedly turned a snort of laughter into a cough.

"Yes. I think this is a simply marvellous idea," Dumbledore smiled cheerfully at them, eyes twinkling merrily. "Severus, I'm giving you responsibility of setting this tournament up and organising it."

"What?" Snape squeaked, flushing with embarrassment, Carrow beside him bristling with surprised indignation, while the rest of his so called colleagues failed to sympathise or commiserate with him in any way what so ever. He gritted his teeth over the unfairness of the situation. Why did these things keep happening to him? He risked a quick glance at the giant man, who was blatantly sulking. Hadn't Timothy warned him about this? The apparent sullen behaviour and silence and then seemingly out of nowhere…oh well, something to look forward to and he'd get a grandstand seat as well.

oOo

"Cauldrons. Scrub them. _Now!_ " Snape growled at the trembling second year who had dared attempt to put flobber-worm guts in another's school bag where he could see. As the little brute scurried towards the sinks, he turned back to the horrific excuses for essays his fifth year students had dared turn in. One particular idiot had written " _I am a fish_ " approximately 647 times.

" _Perfect the animagus transformation and one day you may very well be correct,"_ he scrawled by the large red "T" this unbearable piece of rubbish barely deserved. If only he could invent an even lower grade for such utter stupidity.

Growling to himself, he pulled the next vile attack on the English language towards him, giving the still ribbon wrapped bundle of annoyance a nasty glare. So Carrow might have decided he like the idea of a tournament, but you could tell just by looking at the bloody pile of papers and files and notes and things that bloody Granger had put it together. Did the girl not know when to stop?

With a sigh of frustration, he slammed down the no-doubt awful essay, ignoring the startled squeak and clatter from the other side of the classroom, and pulled the ribbon wrapped monstrosity towards him. Probably best to get it over and done with, a bit like pulling teeth really.

It was as bad as he'd feared. Granger had gone on some sort of single-minded intellectual rampage, and then lumped the results together in some arcane order that only made sense to her and strange people like Carrow. He'd read through the proposal she'd apparently written Carrow, which was alright as far as it went, a maze like obstacle course that the contestants had to get through, nothing too lethal (or she hadn't suggested anything outright dangerous), teams up to six people, all of which he was already aware of.

Frustrated, he rifled through a wad of loose parchment which proved to be just calculations of some kind. That didn't make sense at all. Had Granger somehow accidentally mixed up her Arithmancy homework with this little side-project?

A slim book slipped out from underneath. "Dungeons and Dragons…player's handbook?" Snape muttered to himself with a frown. It was blatantly muggle, considering the monster on the front. What was it? Some strange sort of horned troll? He shook his head in disbelief; was he actually supposed to see this as inspirational?

He flipped it open cautiously. Before Carrow, he'd have dismissed such a thing outright, but Carrow and his company made a policy of combining the muggle and the magical, no matter that it was illegal and would land him in Azkaban without question if he was ever caught. The results though were eye-opening, extraordinary at the very least…

…he gently lay the book down in a daze, ideas teeming through his mind. He didn't need to worry about setting anything up outside at all, no tromping through mud, no being chased by homicidal centaurs or whatever else Carrow had annoyed this week and that little indoor training area he and Mad-Eye had put together last year was far too small and restricted in its scope. A thought occurred to him, and a slow smile began to spread across his face; what was he thinking? He'd literally got a ready-made maze outside his classroom door.

The dungeons were hardly used at all these days other than the parts closest to the Entrance Hall. He'd explored them quite a bit as a student and they were large and sprawling, full of empty storage rooms and vaults, abandoned classrooms and strange and inexplicable corners, and if you went deep enough, then you came across actual dungeon cells and a torture chamber. Or he thought it was a torture chamber, what with the chains and manacles on the walls. Not to mention you had to contend with partial flooding, overly active slime moulds, moving passages and possibly flesh eating toadstools. It was _perfect_.

All he would have to do would be to map the place a bit maybe; he flicked back through the book. Yes, definitely a map for each team with a destination marked, and he'd need to set some sort of challenge since he was going to be acting as the _Dungeon_ Master, something he could get used to, an official licence to torture the students.

What if he had the little brats retrieve some sort of object? But it would be better if they started from different points, so they weren't competing directly against each other from the start…and he'd need to brew lots of different potions. The books was very clear about that; healing potions, poisons, potions that gave you advantageous abilities, all placed through the damn dungeon with other sorts of treasures to be discovered and won.

He needed help really, but who could he trust, someone who would understand what he was trying to achieve here… _Moody_ , Old Mad-Eye would jump at the chance to get involved in something like this, plus he'd have excellent ideas for brat torture…

"Sir? _Sir!_ "

"What?" Snape snarled, glaring at the blasted little Gryffindor. Why wasn't he still scrubbing cauldrons?

"Erm…Sir. It's erm, nearly curfew," the little brat shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot where he stood in front of the desk.

Snape hastily cast a tempus charm. Oh blast, and he'd still got all those essays to mark.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

* * *

Chapter 4

He couldn't believe he managed to get himself in this mess, he grumbled to himself as he leaned over the cluttered desk to retrieve the official stamp. "Bloody paperwork, bloody muggles," he growled out loud as he stamped a series of documents relating to some official something or other with the muggle police force.

"Bloody Carrow," he snarled, as he flung the stamp back onto its ink pad. How had someone like _that_ , so obviously _not_ normal for either a muggle or a wizard just walked into such a prime position in the Wizengamot? And in so little time as well.

That was over two years ago now and the man was poking his nose into everything, upsetting people right left and centre and just generally meddling, turning the entire Magical government upside down in the process. Entire sub-committees had disappeared, departments had been combined, prominent (and to his mind completely useless) purebloods had been sacked for various misdemeanours ranging from actively stealing from the Ministry coffers to just never turning up to work, half-blood and even muggle-born employees had been promoted to positions where they actually had some real power.

And what had he, Martin "Marty" Cuthbert Stewart managed to achieve over the last two years? Abso-bloody-lutely nothing! That's what. He glared around his dingy office, sneering at the cup-rings on his colleague's desk (lazy bastard), the peeling paint of the walls, an old yellowing poster that shouted _Follow the green cross code!_ , the piles of paperwork his bloody work mate had decided he couldn't be bothered to do and were probably going to land up on _his_ desk come tomorrow morning; _hey Marty, could you do me a favour?_ Funny how it never worked the other way.

All he'd managed to do over the last two years was get further into debt with a bunch of people he'd wished he'd never met in his life.

All he'd wanted was a way of relieving the stress after work. Sure, going to the pub for a pint with some friends had been one thing, but then they'd started going to the cockfights and he'd placed a few bets, even won a bit, much to his delight. Got quite good at judging a bird's potential really. More often than not he'd broken even.

But then he'd decided to have a go at the big game, the bare-knuckle fighting, a little at first but the more matches he'd watched the more he'd been dragged in. There was just something so _primal_ watching two people have at each other with nothing but their bare fists. So he'd begun to bet bigger and bigger, and then he'd lost big time, his rent money and _everything_ , and the more he'd tried to dig himself out of his mess the worse things had got until he was seriously considering just packing his bags and just slipping away in the night…or he could just kill himself. A quick severing charm to the neck…he'd heard the trick was to bounce it off a mirror or something, made it easier for the magic to work.

He slammed the stamp down on yet another set of documents, their contents a dull smear of legalese. Tossing them into his out tray, they disappeared with a whoosh to some distant part of the Ministry. Feeling as grey as the walls, he pulled the next pile of governmental drivel towards him, the seemingly ever growing pile of parchment that filled his in-box teetering dangerously, before it finally unbalanced, cascading to the floor, drifting under every inconvenient obstacle it could.

"Well, bloody sodding hell!" Marty roared, aiming a kick at a very official looking document that even had a red wax seal. Bloody stuff did it on purpose he swore. He grumbled as he stiffly got down on his hands and knees so he could fish the damn stuff out from under the filing cabinet, and the desk, and even the stationary cupboard. He glared furiously at the recalcitrant piece of parchment.

Reaching forward, he stretched out to grab the corner of the blasted thing. To his surprise, the slightly grimy carpet came up to meet him, his vision beginning to grey at the edges as he blacked out.

oOo

"I thought he was never going to move," Caroline grumbled as she put her wand back into her holster, "honestly, the inconsideration of some people."

Annie gently poked the prostrate ministry employee with a foot. "Are you sure you didn't hit him a little too hard?"

Caroline glowered at her friend. "I've not really used a wand in a while but I've been practising hard these last few weeks, so maybe he was just inconsiderate and hit the floor harder than was strictly necessary."

Annie gave her a quizzical look. "How did he do that? He was only about a foot off it to begin with…"

"Shouldn't we just go and get the boss," Caroline interrupted her, "I'm sure he'll be eager to get started." She turned to the door, only to find Carrow easing his gigantic frame through the normal sized opening.

"Oh, Sir!" she warbled. "We were just about to fetch you. Your timing is excellent."

Carrow gave them a flat look as he looked round the small room with narrowed eyes. "The bickering suggested you had succeeded. Naturally I came to investigate. Roll him over…please."

Sighing heavily, Annie nudged the Ministry drone over with a foot. The man slumped onto his back, his mouth slack in his pale blotchy face.

Carrow crouched down carefully on one knee in the limited room he had, ignoring the fascinated stares of the two vampire ladies. Letting his mind drift away from the reality of the office, he sank into the man's consciousness. This "Marty" had one of the shallowest minds he'd come across, stilted and flat from years of daily monotony, memories of the same paperwork, the same faces over and over again until they resembled a bad photocopy (he ought to know, he actually tried it out once, until Timothy told him off for wasting toner ink).

Layered underneath were all the hopes and dreams cruelly crushed and stunted by the harsh reality of adult life, of the desperation and drag of needing to earn a living, any living, to stay alive, the reality of being a half blood child of muggle-born parents, a nobody, a third class citizen.

Down further to childish wishes and fantasies, the joy of actively doing magic with a wand, friendships and fighting, flying a broom. Down to the beating heart of the man; here Carrow stayed a moment in the thrumming pulsing darkness and warmth of Martin "Marty" Cuthbert Stewart's very being.

Placing his carefully crafted seed of control, he retreated back to the safety of his being and the solid reality of the office and the appraising looks of the two vampires.

"You glowed blue a bit," Annie said, arms folded over her chest as she stared at him thoughtfully.

"Honestly," Caroline sighed, "that had to be some of the most un-dramatic magic I have ever seen…but he is ours now, isn't he?"

Carrow shook his head with a sigh. "Indeed he is, and the less who know the better…" he gave the pair a withering look.

"Of course, Sir," Annie smiled nervously, Caroline nodding as she bobbed a little curtsey.

"Good." Carrow gave a sharp nod. Turning with a sigh, he began the annoying process of easing himself through the ridiculously undersized door.

oOo

Marty woke with a start, his mouth tasting as if he'd been eating the office carpet, which considering he was lying on the floor, was a real possibility. How the heck did he get down here? He could remember sitting at his desk finishing up the last bits of paperwork for the day, and then…

He scratched his head in frustration as he looked around in puzzlement to find sheaves of parchment littering the floor. Snarling in frustration, he began to gather them up. How long had he been asleep, because obviously he must have drifted off at some point.

Dumping it all back on his desk in a heap, he checked the time. Oh hell, oh bloody buggering…snarling, he kicked the chair, causing it to skitter across the carpet, teetering dangerously for a moment. This would be the second time this week alone that he'd failed to make it back to his flat. He might as well just get a sleeping bag and set up home under his desk. It would certainly save on rent, and there'd be less cockroaches too.

Damn, he could do with a shower, and a shave. He slumped against his desk as he scrubbed a hand across the stubbly mess of his chin. Looked like freshening charms again, he sniffed his armpit, oh yeah definitely needed, but first breakfast.

Marty stretched with a yawn, wincing as his jaw cracked. What he really fancied was sardines on toast. Oh yeah, that would go down a treat.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Seriously what else do we have to do?" Hermione said as the paper targets sailed towards them. Hers, she was pleased to see, had a neat peppering of holes in the forehead and another small cluster right over the heart.

Ron glared at his rather more ragged target. "Honestly? How about homework?"

"But you've finished it all, I remember, ouch!" Neville yelped as Ron kicked him sideways in the ankle with a pointed glare.

"I _know_ you're just as curious as I am," Hermione hissed at them, "come on guys, it's been ages since we've had an adventure."

Ron glared darkly down the shooting range. "Yeah, I remember the last one all too well. Seriously, if this involves opening portals to hellish realms and feeding them live rab…"

"Of course not," Hermione laughed nervously. "Hey Charles!" she called to the member of the Vampire Coven who was supposed to be supervising them, but appeared to be asleep propped up against the wall. "Have we got time for one more round?"

"Please, Charles," Neville grinned as he hefted his birthday present, "one more round."

Charles looked around blearily as he tried to gather himself together and at least look a little professional. "I don't know you lot. The Big Boss looks like he's winding things up with the newbies right now."

They turned to find Carrow looming over a less than impressive first attempt at cleaning a gun, a thunderous glower on his face.

"Oh. Oh dear," Hermione murmured, obviously trying not to laugh, "looks like someone missed an oiling point."

"You'd think he'd remember they were actual kids, wouldn't you?" Ron sighed. Neville shook his head sadly.

oOo

"…disgraceful display!"

Snape cautiously put his head around the corner at the sound of Minerva's most disapproving tones. There stood before her were the Dreadful Duo, Felix and Tiffany covered from head to toe in blue slime.

How in Merlin's name had they managed _that_? Illicit potions experiments- except they didn't have the knowledge or experience to get anything more exciting than brown sludge or a large bang…or had they been trying higher level charms that they damn well shouldn't? Well, looked like he wasn't going to find out any time soon, unless Minerva decided to have a rant in the staffroom.

"Quick," he hissed to his guest over his shoulder as he smoothly drifted around the corner trying to look as unobtrusive as possible. Mad-Eye Moody hobbled after him as quick as he could down the steps into the Dungeons.

Unfortunately, they'd been spotted.

"Severus? _Severus!_ "

Snape sprinted past his office and round the corner into the deeper dungeons, where he slumped against the wall, panting slightly, Moody joining him only moments later.

"Did we lose her?" Snape asked.

"Where has he got to?" McGonagall's voice drifted down the passage towards them. "Confound it!"

Eventually they heard her footsteps fade away.

"Hopefully she's taking the little hellions to Carrow," Snape grinned, "that'll brighten his Sunday up."

Moody snorted with laughter.

oOo

"Come on Ripper, it's nearly lunch time," Ron whined as he trailed along behind Hermione who was determinedly stalking down a corridor on the fourth floor.

Neville did his best to roll his eyes, but bears really weren't built for that sort of expression. Interesting smells assailed him from every direction, dust and fusty old books and that polish Filch liked to use on the armour, and flat spent magic from old spells, and of course underneath it all the fizzing tang and deep ocean like quality he was pretty sure was the Castle itself. It felt old and…

"Nev," Hermione yelled sounding quite exasperated.

Startled, Neville jerked up onto his hind legs, startling a nearby portrait.

Hermione was standing in front of a large canvas depicting a big game hunt on the Serengeti, or it should have been…

Changing back to human, Neville eyed the portrait he'd startled. The rather stiff and be-ruffed gentleman had gone back to stroking his pet lion…oh right; looked like the big game hunt was off.

It soon became clear why; there pacing across the grassy plain was a towering boxy machine, determinedly stomping along on surprisingly squat and ungainly legs. The claws on one of its stubby arms opened and closed reflexively as it sang to itself, its thunderous voice rendering the words incomprehensible.

"Erm…now what?" Neville asked. Ron shrugged, looking as bored as he felt.

"Now we wait," Hermione said not, taking her eyes of the painting.

oOo

"So what do you think?" Snape asked as they entered a large open area that must have been used for storing barrels at one point but was now echoingly empty, its barrel vaulted ceiling playing host to the odd spider.

Not helping the desolate atmosphere were the gaping dark doorways around the walls that led further into the warren of the deeper dungeons.

"I think it has potential as a starting point for the various teams," Snape carried on explaining as he rubbed absently at his left arm.

"I think the roof is leaking," Moody growled as he glared around at the damp mouldy walls and the puddle in the middle of the floor.

"I wouldn't be surprised," Snape said, "I suspect we're actually under the lake here. If we go this way," he pointed to the dark unwelcoming doorway to the right, "it's very quickly becomes a tunnel in bare rock. I found the remains of a grindylow in there once."

Moody stumped over, the glowing tip of his wand held high as he squinted down the passage beyond.

"Huh," he grunted, "you say this is like a role-playing thing…it sounds almost like some of the training exercises I used to put the newbies through, before Fudge slashed the DMLE's budget in the 80's, the utter pillock. Thank Merlin we've got Carrow reining that idiot in,"

He turned to smirk at Snape, the wand-light turning his visage into a horrific scare-mask. "What you need, lad, are some creatures to liven this place up, tunnel snakes, rock dragons, maybe some acromantulas…"

Snape's grin was sadistic. "Maybe I should have a little chat with Hagrid."

oOo

"I think I've got a crick in my back," Ron complained as he tried to get up.

"Serves you right," Hermione gave an unsympathetic sniff not taking her eyes off the painting for a moment, "fancy sitting on a cold stone floor."

Neville and Ron exchanged looks behind her back. Neville shrugged; these things were so much easier when you were a bear.

"It's got to be at least three in the afternoon, Hermione," Ron changed tack, "dinner time soon," he groaned as he stretched, "that's better," he sighed.

"Except that Dreadnought is still loose. They're going to round him up at some point," Hermione said as she carried on watching the war machine, who was currently having an argument with a lone tree.

A roaring murmur grew, the sound of approaching motorcycles, trails of dust announcing their arrival.

"Finally," Ron moaned as the first scout bike roared into view followed by a squad. Behind them came a boxy vehicle on treads that seemed to have been designed by someone who had had a shoebox described to them once and had attempted to recreate it.

"Isn't that like that thing Carrow wanted built over the summer?" Neville asked.

"And then there was that huge argument with some of those people from the R&D place," Ron nodded, "yeah, that was right…and something about a tank, and never again."

"He'll wear them down," Neville said, "bet you."

"Excuse me," Hermione said loudly. The two looked towards her expecting glares or at least an admonishing look, only to find she was talking to the painting which was currently over run by an assortment of very large men. Some sported the black, white and yellow Carrow favoured. The others sported armour of an icy grey hue hung with pelts and totems and trophies, their shaggy appearance making them look wild and dangerous.

"Erm, Hermione," Ron hissed, "is this safe? I know they're paintings but…"

Neville edged out of the plane of view of the picture frame, turning back into a bear as he tried to look as innocuous as possible; nothing to see here, just a bear being a bear.

One of the wilder looking space marines prowled forward towards the picture plane, glaring out at them curiously. He barked something in a rumbling growl, the row of skull totems carved with angular runes that hung across his chest plate rattling with his movement.

Ron could tell it was probably one of the languages Carrow spoke (or more accurately shouted), one of the strange ones from the future. He rolled his eyes as Hermione actually managed to stumble haltingly through a greeting in the same tongue. Trust Ripper to persuade Carrow to teach her something like that, Ron sighed as the conversation continued.

Apparently whatever it was that Hermione was saying had made them appear less suspicious, as the giant warrior looked marginally friendlier.

"You wish to find the local chapel?" the warrior finally growled in English eyeing them warily.

Hermione nodded. "Indeed, sir. I understand Brother Chaplain Caius officiates."

The space marine folded his arms over his chest as he regarded them with narrowed eyes. "You're some of young Allesandor's followers, aren't you?" he said. "Hmm, maybe I will help you, but you have to do something for me in return."

"If it's doable," Hermione nodded. Ron had a very bad feeling about this.

"There's a lady who resides further up, near one of the towers, goes by the name of Elizabeth Montrose-Smythe. A beautiful and cultured lady, and the way she can sup the beer…" the space marine actually smiled revealing long canines. "Put in a good word for me. Tell of the might, strength and drinking prowess of Bjarki Snowmane!" He crashed his fist against his breast-plate causing the skull totems to rattle.

oOo

"Looks like the Castle actually had proper dungeons," Moody gave the sold but rather rusty iron bars an approving glare, "nice rune work on them too, why they're so solid still." He attempted to rattle them, nodding approvingly as they stayed firm.

"It's just begging to be dressed up isn't it," Snape said, "the odd skeleton, maybe a fake desiccated corpse still hanging in its manacles."

Moody gave a hearty laugh. "Plenty of blood stained straw, too. Is there a torture chamber somewhere? All the old places had torture chambers."

Snape looked around, considering the matter. "Well, that room there is a possibility…or we could just set up an iron maiden and a rack here…"

"That could look suitably intimidating," Moody nodded, "I like the desiccated corpse idea. You should put one of the quest items on it. See who's got a strong enough stomach to go rifling through its pockets."

Snape chuckled at the thought. What an excellent idea.

"What's this?" Moody muttered as he shuffled around. He tapped his staff on the floor experimentally, listening to the sharp taps of rock turning into echoing thumps.

"That's not stone," Snape said as they exchanged looks. A few hasty cleaning charms revealed a trapdoor, heavy and blackened with age. With a little effort, Snape levered it open, letting free a gust of damp, stale air. Below lay a deep stinking pit topped with a rusting grate.

"They did do the job properly, didn't they?" Moody almost sounded like a small child let loose in a sweet shop.

"An oubliette," Snape frowned. This was unexpected and quite wonderful.

"Look, it's still occupied," Moody pointed out.

Down at the slime filled bottom sat the slumped and yellowing remains of a skeleton, its empty eye sockets gazing back at them soulfully.

"It just needs a little tweak, I think," Snape said as he crouched down. A few charms later and the ragged remains of the skeleton's clothing were transformed into the ragged remains of school robes.

"Hufflepuff?" Moody laughed, "that's perfect."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Ridiculous," stormed Cornelius Fudge, thumping the top of his desk with a hand in a manner he hoped looked suitably masculine and authoritive. The "acting" Senior Under Secretary took absolutely no notice of him, continuing with his stony faced shuffling of documents.

"Why would anyone consider sending a child under the age of eleven to school," Fudge continued, desperate to make an impression, "children that age, all they want to do is play games all day. They don't have the concentration…"

"I learnt to read and write when I was four," Faulks pointed out coldly, "by age five I had been introduced to the basics of addition and subtraction, could use a ruler, and name simple shapes with confidence…among other things."

Fudge glared at the younger man who was now jotting down notes with, to his thinly veiled disgust, one of those new fangled muggle steel-nibbed dip pens.

"There is a damn good reason why the Wizarding World desperately needs primary education. Take, for example, a delightful young man," Faulks sneered (or Fudge hoped it was a sneer), "who I'm going to call, for the sake of my story, Bertie. Bertie, a fine example of his kind, arrived at Hogwarts barely able to read and write, but he didn't let it hold him back, instead choosing to throw his name around and bully his year mates into doing his homework for him. As a result he only just managed to scrape through his OWLs, and as for his NEWTs…" Faulks shook his head in disgust. "So of course, when Bertie finally decided that he wanted to have a job, he came to the Ministry expecting to just be able to walk into a position because of who his father was."

"Quite reasonable, of course," Fudge nodded.

Faulks gave him a flat look. "But, of course, he failed the Entrance Exam. Bertie, not having really grown up in the years since Hogwarts, or kept up with recent events, reacted predictably. In the end Security threw him out," Faulks said with a satisfied sniff.

"But…but…his father…" Fudge spluttered horrified. Who was this apparently well connected pureblood who had been refused a position at the Ministry? The backlash from his family could be terrible!

"But nothing, Minister," Faulks gave him a stare that froze his spine, "the Ministry is better able to function without such people clogging up the system, and creating unnecessary bureaucracy."

"You jumped up little mud-blood," Fudge snarled leaping to his feet, "talking about your betters like that. I have had enough," he screamed kicking his desk, "YOU'RE FIRED! GET OUT!" He stormed round his desk, chest puffed out importantly, finger pointing to the door.

Faulks raised an eyebrow, obviously unimpressed. "You do realise you can't just fire your underlings like that anymore, don't you?"

"WHAT?" Fudge roared, feeling quite ready to tear the remains of his hair out.

"Minister, the Employee's Rights Bill, part of Mr Carrow's drive to bring us in line with the better aspects of the non-magical world. You signed it into law eight months ago," Faulks said, his expression almost condescending. "You actually have to prove a legitimate reason for sacking an employee now."

"Then I'll change it," Fudge snarled, chest puffing up in outrage.

"No, you won't," Faulks told him flatly, "you'll do exactly as you're told. You seem to be forgetting, Minister, that the only reason you are still where you are is that Mr Carrow finds you useful."

Fudge stared at him, mouth opening and closing wordlessly. Suddenly realising he probably looked like a badly stunned fish, he turned on his desk with a snarl of ineffectual rage, giving the abused piece of furniture a solid kick.

Something underneath the desk made a distinctly wet sound, and a cloud of rotten stink was released into the confined air of the office.

Gagging, Fudge sprinted for the door, slamming it open as he raced for the wastepaper basket sitting next to his secretary's desk, which he was promptly, gloriously sick in.

"Really, Cornelius," his secretary glared at him over her half-moon glasses, lips tight and pinched in disapproval.

"Sorry, sorry," Fudge muttered as he backed away from the rather caustic witch who never hesitated to remind him she'd gone to school with his father or how disappointing he was in comparison.

Faulks stalked out of the office, some sort of bubble charm over his head, the wretched paperwork tucked under his arm. "I do believe that the Ministry Prankster has struck again," he said as he dumped the blasted stuff on the rather plush visitor's sofa. "When he found the time to do it, I have no idea."

"What?" Fudge said intelligently.

"Unless _you're_ in the habit of sticking muggle-style vacuum packed haddock to the underside of your desk, that is." Faulks gave him a hard look as he handed over more bloody forms to sign. Fudge took them reluctantly.

"This is why it would have been preferable to meet in Mr Carrow's office," Faulks sighed as he began sorting through the various folders.

"But I always get lost, and your office manager is scary," Fudge muttered feeling put upon and miserable as he glared at the blasted handful of parchment, "why do I need to sign them, anyway?"

Faulks gave him a withering glare. "You could always try reading the things," he pointed out, "I think you'll find, sir, that the top one is an internal memorandum pertaining to pets in the workplace, something you yourself were rather keen on, considering that nasty little incident when someone's pet crup ran amok in the staff canteen."

Fudge stared at the document again, shifting his feet in embarrassment. Er…yes, he had wanted to make it clear to the Ministry staff as a whole that while having a familiar was a wonderful thing, that they really shouldn't be fed experimental potions or too much cake, or anything else that would inconvenience their fellow employees.

"Fine, fine," he muttered as he grabbed a nearby quill and hastily scrawled his signature across the parchment. How had his life ended up like this? He'd been planning to retire after a few more terms in office to a nice comfortable (and not so little) place in the country that Mrs Fudge had been cooing over where they would be able to hold wonderful dinner parties and the like, select guests only, thank you very much…and then _Carrow_ happened…and suddenly he was feeling very alone, even worse than after Dad had died. Who would help him? Who would listen?

oOo

"Thank you for seeing me, Headmaster," Fudge simpered, "and on such short notice, too."

"Not at all, Cornelius," Dumbledore smiled benignly at him from where he sat behind his desk, a buttered scone in one hand.

Fudge gave him a watery smile as he tried to gather his nerves together and just ask. It had seemed so easy in the space of his office (once it had been aired out) to just nip over to Hogwarts and persuade the Chief Warlock to take his side, see his point of view, but now he was here actually facing the man…

"Not that this isn't delightful," Dumbledore said as he selected a couple of ginger newts with the tongs the house-elves had thoughtfully provided, "but I am a mite puzzled as to why you were so desperate to meet with me; surely not to talk about the weather?" He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

Swallowing nervously, Fudge did his best to smile engagingly, something his mother had always said was his best feature.

"Erm…oh…yes…Allesandor Carrow," he said finally, trying not to feel sick, "he's rather a large problem, a small problem I mean. Nothing I can't handle," he said to Dumbledore's rather disbelieving expression, "yes, a little problem…though he is rather large isn't he…"

"Cornelius," Dumbledore sighed.

"…and that awful secretary of his," Fudge carried on, rather aware that he was probably rambling now, "and the changes they keep making, the people they've upset! Honestly, the Ministry is a shadow of its former self!"

"Really?" Dumbledore smiled politely. "You know," he frowned thoughtfully, "when I went to register my taxes this year, the young lady who served me didn't demand a bribe," he smiled brightly as Fudge blinked in puzzlement. How was this in any way relevant? Bribes were just a way of life, the Ministry ran on them.

"And this extremely efficient young lady," Dumbledore continued, "was one of our more ambitious Ravenclaw muggleborns, fresh out of Hogwarts and already embarking on her career in the Ministry. It really was quite wonderful to see."

"But see here, Albus…" It was like a set of flood gates had opened and he found himself pacing back and forth among the numerous spindly legged tables that littered the office, their enigmatic contents spinning, twitching and emitting small puffs of smoke as he strode past, pouring out his complaints against Carrow, hands clasped behind his back.

"…it's terrible, Albus! What do I do?" He ground to a halt feeling quite limp and washed out.

"Albus?" he asked. The Headmaster was leaning back in his chair gazing up at the ceiling, idly twiddling his thumbs.

"Hmmm, quite the little problem you have there," Dumbledore said finally, smiling sweetly, "though I do feel quite a bit of it was entirely of your own making. Whatever possessed you to give Allesandor an office in such an isolated part of the Ministry, where you wouldn't be able to keep an eye on him? I did warn you Cornelius, Allesandor has never been exactly shy about what he's spent most of his life doing."

"But, but," Fudge deflated like a pricked balloon, "you will support me…won't you?" He flinched at how small and pathetic and _desperate_ he sounded.

Dumbledore's smile was almost chilly. "Well, of course not, Cornelius; why would I want to be seen as supporting Allesandor's puppet? It would be political suicide, especially with all the recent upheaval."

"What!" Fudge spluttered indignantly. He wasn't Carrow's puppet, not at all…not really…he was just struggling a little to keep his head above the murky political waters of the Wizengamot to be honest. Why did Lucius have to just suddenly die like that; why did everything have to be so difficult?

Well, he was just going to have to take matters into his own hands, wasn't he?

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"At least they didn't fall asleep," Sirius said as he bounced along, skipping over a vanishing step as they made their way down towards the Great Hall and dinner.

Remus gave a sarcastic huff. "Honestly, Padfoot," he sighed, "didn't you notice, Mr Stibbons had both arms strapped up, though since he was using a dictaquill I suspect he ended up with the best notes in the class, and Miss Pemberton had bandages wrapped round her head and seemed quite out of it. Her friend wasn't much better either, she'd got her…"

"I get it, I get it," Sirius held up his hands placatingly, dodging sideways when a small group of second year Gryffindors charged past. One of them was hauling along a purloined mace, obviously hoping for early membership to the Defence Club.

"Good luck, kid," Sirius shouted after him.

Remus gave him a nasty glare. "Mason, Cavill, Smythe! No running in the halls," Remus bellowed after them, "five points from Gryffindor. Each. And put the mace back where you found it!"

"That's a bit harsh, don't you think?" Sirius said, bouncing on his toes.

Remus glowered at him.

"Ah, come on, Mooney, they were only running," Sirius whined, "it's not like they were up to something."

"No?" Remus raised an eyebrow sarcastically as they went past a landscape, where a small herd of elephants appeared to be trying to hide in among the trees of an English country landscape, complete with a herd of cows crossing a small ford.

"Come on, Mooney, you know we did much worse than _running_ as kids," Sirius tried.

"Not with stolen maces, we didn't," Remus said as he ducked behind a tapestry of a unicorn and into the secret passage that lay beyond. " _You_ and James got up to all sorts of things," he sighed, "no, this is all about your Godson causing havoc all around him. He doesn't seem to understand that the students have lessons other than his."

"Well, he's just…"

"Don't try and protect him, Sirius," Remus snapped, "the man is an utter menace with very dubious intentions and he's affecting my ability to _teach_."

"But…"

"The first time in _decades_ that History has actually been taught to an acceptable level, Padfoot!" Remus threw his hands up in exasperation.

"But…" Giving up, Sirius turned into Padfoot, dropping to the floor with a pitiful whine.

"Remember what it was like? I had to self-study my favourite subject just to get passing grades because Binns was so dreadful, "Remus carried on, "and then when the OWLs started…"

"Quite," Snape said as he appeared in front of them, "may I borrow you for a moment, Lupin, just a small question I would like to ask of you?"

Sirius growled.

"I promise to return your…caretaker to you in one piece Black," Snape smirked at the large and sullen dog.

"Fine," Remus rolled his eyes, "how can I help you, Severus?"

"Best we're away from the little hellions first." Snape drifted into the nearest empty classroom, looking around cautiously as he cast a few detection charms. Remus cheerfully closed the door on Padfoot's nose, giving Snape an expectant look.

Snape had whipped out a small vial. "Could I have some of your spit, please?" He gave Remus what he obviously thought was a winning smile; frankly, it gave the werewolf the creeps.

"Erm…why?" Remus edged closer to the door and possible safety. It wouldn't be the first time he'd come into contact with someone who saw him in terms of what he'd fetch on the Potions-ingredients black market.

"It's for the tournament," Snape explained, still with the creepy smile, "one of the traps you see. I'm making an ointment, _Grim's Revenge_ to coat a wall with. I'm making the antidote too, don't worry."

"Isn't Grim's revenge illegal?" Remus frowned, "I'm not sure…"

A surprised and frantic canine yelp came from outside, gradually receding into the distance. Wrenching the door open, Remus and Snape were confronted with a tidal wave of rubber ducks, each one the size of a shirt button, and in the distance, being carried away towards the main staircase and the entrance hall, a frantic Padfoot desperately paddling to keep his head above the glistening yellow tide.

"Sirius!" Frantically, Remus waded after his rapidly disappearing friend; if he was swept down the staircase while it was in motion…the thought was too awful to contemplate. Leaping and pushing and throwing himself forward, he made it to the stairs just in time to see the struggling dog being swept over and down the stairs, only for the tidal-wave of rubber ducks to vanish as mysteriously as they had appeared, leaving a now very human Sirius paddling in midair before the inevitable happened, his jaw connecting with the steps with a sickening crack.

"You know, that never gets old," Snape sighed happily as he watched Sirius writhe and moan in pain on the stairs.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"What are we doing again?" Wulfric asked, obviously equally puzzled, "seriously, when I first arrived I had a walk round town and there was like nothing there. Talk about sleepy…and quaint."

Timothy shrugged, as he strode along the pavement, his great coat swirling around his ankles, Black Russian hanging from the cleft in his lip. He'd attempted to look casual that morning, taken one horrified look at himself in the mirror and then shoved his normal attire back on.

"According to Maria Curtis, the current state of the high street would be of interest to me," Timothy sighed as he trudged along. Of all the things he could be doing with his day off. He could be relaxing in front of the television right now, rotting his brain with sit-com re-runs, or reading a book or even being sensible and catching up on his sleep, but no, no, he was chasing up some vague suggestion from someone he only knew, sort of, as a work colleague. Obviously Carrow's low-grade insanity and paranoia was contagious.

Wulfric frowned as they stepped around a slow moving mother with pushchair and trailing brood, all carrying school bags and lunch boxes covered in cartoon characters.

"And that was it," he said turning his glare on Timothy.

"And that was it," Timothy sighed. "Why did you insist on coming out with me again?"

Wulfric huffed at the stupid question. "Seriously? The amount of trouble you can find on your own is phenomenal. I mean, only the other day you went jogging and nearly got mauled by a dragon, besides…it's been a while since I've eaten out, make a nice change."

"We've had takeaways," Timothy pointed out, not unreasonably he felt.

Wulfric just gave him a look. "Plus it stops you from looking sad and lonely, eating out all on your lonesome." Timothy rolled his eyes in exasperation.

They paused at the kerb waiting for a gap in the traffic. A blue and yellow bus trundled past, its side proclaiming _day-trekker_ _tickets_ and _£10 unlimited travel!_

"It was a miniature dragon cross-breed sort of thing," Timothy said as they crossed the road, "honestly, all he did was to burp flame. I'm keeping an eye on him…unfortunately, the breeder seems to have done a bunk," he said at Wulfric's unconvinced expression.

They turned a corner past a small row of shops, a chemist, a hairdressers and a little mini-metro, a lad guarding a couple of jack russells straining on their leads whining, giving them suspicious looks as they strode past.

"What if this "miniature" dragon gets loose?" Wulfric asked, obviously unimpressed with the situation.

"He already has," Timothy pointed out, "the most he managed was nearly setting a lelandii hedge on fire. Not much of a loss, if you ask me."

Wulfric gave him a flat stare.

oOo

The cherry trees in the market place were festooned with lights, lending the space an unseasonably festive air which was totally at odds with Timothy's previous experiences of the place. The last time he'd visited, admittedly over a year ago, he'd been left with the impression of down-at-heel gentility. The Georgian and Victorian buildings around the market place had looked shabby and unloved, the few shops basic and clinging on by the skin of their teeth.

But now…the streets swarmed with people, students from the local collage hanging around after tutorials, late shoppers, and people dressed up for a night out.

The car-parking as a result, Timothy noted, was full; people had even resorted to leaving their vehicles in strange places. In fact somebody was about to have their afternoon ruined by a traffic warden, and quite rightly too considering they'd been daft enough to park on the double-yellow lines on the tight bend of road that led into Church Lane.

And the shops…there had been a fair few empty shops before, a smattering of "to let" and "for sale" signs. Those were all gone; even places that he was pretty sure had been empty for years and years were now obviously occupied or in the process of being done up.

Even the church was getting in on the action, its wrought iron gates now spanned by an arch of foliage and lights.

In front of it sat the war memorial, a plinth of white marble topped by a bronze angel, wings out spread. Timothy peered at the names engraved on the bronze plaques fixed to the plinth. Under the title "Ypres" and a date, so many names, all of them so young…

"So where's this restaurant them?" Wulfric poked him gently in the side.

"Oh…yes, yes of course," Timothy shook himself, "the Starganza. One of Mrs Thorpe's ladies recommended the place to me. Apparently her husband took her there for their anniversary."

There was really wasn't anything he could do as the werewolf physically towed him across the square through the throngs to what had originally been a small theatre, but had then been converted into an equally tiny cinema. Now it was a restaurant of some kind, so new the paintwork was probably still damp. There were even topiaried privet bushes in pots by the doors.

oOo

"So how many violations of the Statute of Secrecy do you think we can get them on so far?" Timothy muttered softly as he glared at the salt and pepper pots that were slowly ambling round a pen in the centre of the table. Every so often they would bump into one another and clumsily stagger off. The bottle of vinegar obviously disliked the smaller condiments with a passion and would lash out whenever they got too close; the ketchup on the other hand seemed completely indifferent to the goings on.

"Erm…yeah, quite a few I'd have thought," Wulfric gave the seasoning rodeo a dubious look over the top of his menu.

"Let's see what they've got…" Timothy murmured to himself as he turned his attention to the menu with a frown. "The children's sweets menu looks more like the trolley on the Hogwarts Express…Wulfric…Wulfric?" Timothy looked up in annoyance, to find Wulfric gazing up at the ceiling, seemingly in a trance.

"Wulfric?" he tried again, but the werewolf hushed him, motioning him to look upwards.

Frowning, he craned his neck back, and nearly fell out of his chair in shock. Jupiter loomed above them in all its glory, revolving bands of clouds snaking across its surface, swirls of interference arising where they interacted, culminating in the swirling eddies that surrounded the Great Red Spot which stared down at them like some sort of baleful eye.

A misshapen lump of rock lazily tumbled past. Timothy blinked as he watched it glide past and now he noticed it, the small orange dot of Io as it orbited close to Jupiter…and also a small pale white disk…was that Ganymede or Europa? He could never quite remember their order, though he was pretty certain it wasn't Callisto, because he was pretty sure Callisto was really dark and heavily cratered…

"Gentlemen, would you like to place your orders?" the waiter asked, grinning down at them. Disturbingly, he appeared to have a very small ginger kitten perched on his top lip. "The ceiling is pretty amazing isn't it? This guy from Aquila Ind. helped us set it up, Jon I think, really nice guy, he even set it up so we can change the view if we want to; makes the monthly Astronomy nights really fun."

Timothy almost groaned in frustration; and he had thought Professor Schmidt knew better, but then the man seemed incapable of turning down a challenge.

"Of course only a psykic or whatever they call themselves can adjust it, but still," the man shrugged with a grin.

"Wizard, actually," Timothy pointed out, "or witch if you're female."

"Huh, really," the waiter said, "seems a bit old fashioned. I think empath or maybe even psyker sounds way cooler."

"I think I'll stick with wizard," Timothy grimaced, trying not to be impolite.

"Me too," Wulfric chimed in, "or werewolf. I'm happy with…"

"Werewolf?" the waiter practically squealed. "That's so cool, and I thought it was brilliant when those vampires from the Castle started turning up to the Astronomy nights. One even complemented me on my veins. I've never been so flattered in my life…"

Timothy sighed heavily as the waiter wittered on. Would it seem very strange if he knocked his head against the table? It was like he was living under a rock or something if a group of people with a collective age of a millennium were getting out and about more than he was.

oOo

"…definitely employing house-elves in their kitchen," Timothy growled as he lit a cigarette.

"Maybe their cook is just very talented," Wulfric shook his head with a grin, "I thought house-elves only really occurred in old family manors and the like.

"Not necessarily," Timothy grumbled as he glared around the street. Contrary to expectations, it was not getting quieter, just less muggle maybe. There were certainly fewer cars around and definitely increased numbers of people whose humanity was probably a little questionable.

Maybe Carrow would be interested? Timothy thought, as he watched a young woman with surprisingly real wings sprouting out of her back walk past. She and her friends looked rather muggle from their attire. Not many wizarding folk in his experience were conversant in muggle style-trends…unless, of course, they'd been taking transformative potions; he closed his eye in exasperation.

But then again maybe Carrow wouldn't be interested. The infuriating man was happy to rant about the extermination of all xenos and abhumans but was perfectly tolerant of vampires and werewolves. Obviously he had different, inscrutable, only-understood-by-giant-megalomaniacs-from-the-future criteria in mind when it came to this sort of thing.

Wulfric elbowed him in the ribs. "You're off in the clouds again. Are you sure you're all right?" he asked, obviously concerned.

Timothy rubbed at his forehead. "Yes, yes, just…I wished I'd been more aware of what was going on here. I've just been so caught up in work, that…"

"Hey, don't beat yourself up about it," Wulfric slung an arm around his shoulders, "you've been stopping Carrow from destroying the world. That's pretty much a full time job. Since this is your first day you've let yourself have off in about three months, why don't you just enjoy it? So…where to next?"

Timothy looked around the busy Market Square, feeling rather nonplussed. He'd only planned on the restaurant, rather expecting Godric's Hollow to be deader than a graveyard when they came out, except for the odd pub of course, but only an utter idiot would ever drink alcohol near Carrow.

"How about…over there," Wulfric pointed to what had been the Market Hall until it had closed down sometime in the early 80's. Now it was sporting a gaudy flashing sign declaring it to be the _Night Market_.

"Do you think they named it after the bus?" Timothy asked. Wulfric gave him a blank look.

"You haven't been on the Knight Bus, have you?" Timothy grinned.

"Er, no, can't say I have," Wulfric gave him a funny look, "should I have?"

"No, not really," Timothy smirked at the werewolf, "something to look forward to, though," he chuckled to himself as he strode off towards the old Market Hall, a slightly worried Wulfric trailing after him.

It was obvious that the arched portico of the Market Hall had become something of a meeting place for the local youth, considering the group of teenagers gathered at one end. One of them was sharing around the headphones of his portable CD player so his friends could hear some new piece of music, most of whom were wearing an odd mish-mash of wizarding and muggle clothing. No knowing who was magical and who wasn't.

Nearby stood a witch in practical travelling robes, with a broom tucked under her arm; a rather nice model too, if Timothy was any judge. She was obviously waiting for someone, as she kept casting tempus charms and then glaring out into the square.

There was even a very normal looking muggle family carrying bulging bags of shopping waiting for their taxi to arrive, their children tired enough to begin bickering, much to the parents' exasperation.

A shadowy figure lurked beside the entrance, eyeing the group of teenagers hungrily. Timothy gave the predatory vampire a stern glare as he went past, causing it to do a double take. Cringing, it slunk off round the corner.

"I'm taking it that this is in fact a market," Timothy muttered to Wulfric as they entered the noisy crowded space of the Hall.

Timothy blinked rapidly, almost dazed by the sheer sensory overload of the place. The cavernous space of the hall was crammed with stalls stuffed higgledy-piggedly in between the cast iron pillars that soared up to the arch of the ceiling.

Everywhere there was produce, objects and services for sale, colourful awnings proclaiming stall holders' names, advertising signs that flashed and morphed and even tried talking to passers-by.

"This is…" Timothy began, lost for words.

"It is, isn't it?" Wulfric said, sounding almost as dazed as Timothy felt.

A nearby fruit and vegetable stall was winding down for the evening, but the book stall next was still very busy. Sidling closer, Timothy could see that it was stocked with a mixture of both magical and non-magical texts, all shelved together in topics. It was odd seeing _O_ _ne Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ by Phyllida Sporesitting next to _The Well-Tempered Garden_ by Christopher Lloyd _._ The customers were nearly as mixed as the books, and it didn't stop there…

Further along, they passed an electrical appliance store that offered a conversion service _"for the magical home,"_ someone in grey robes fiddling with the internal workings of a portable television…

…second-hand robes and muggle toiletries…

…a butcher's, whose offal products were on prominent display, much to the delight of a passing hag…

…a clothing alteration service which looked non-magical at first glance, but the lady ironing a shirt had her wand stuck through her bun…

…an apothecary, the stench of which followed them down the aisle…

…a new-age hippy place with fairy figurines and crystals and packages of something suspiciously "herbal" on a stand behind the counter. An oddly dressed witch was trying one of the luridly coloured "made in Peru" ponchos on …

…someone selling pre-made potions, a small gaggle of young women spilling out of the stall as they walked past, obviously dressed up for an evening out. One of them was already sporting fluffy cat-ears and a tabby striped tail. Her friend downed a small vial, just bought, her companions ohhing and ahhing as her hair rapidly cycled through a spectrum of colours, before settling on a blending of blues, greens and purples.

"Is it even safe for muggles to drink those?" Wulfric asked, "Does anybody even know?" He looked at Timothy. Timothy shrugged; he had a nasty feeling they were going to find out over the next few years…

…a couple of non-magical police officers who had a scrawny young man in cuffs.

"I ain't done nothing," the youth complained, as he fidgeted.

"So my eyes were deceiving me, were they?" one of the officers said. "That lady's handbag just magically jumped into your hands then?"

"Yeah…no…but, well…" the youth stumbled over his words as he became increasingly agitated.

"He's no wizard," a hag shrieked pointing an accusing finger, "he ran up to Elsie and just grabbed her handbag and tried to run off with it. That's when I hit him with mine!" Elsie nodded as she dabbed at her scarred and pock-marked cheeks. "I was just shopping," she wailed.

"Ladies," one of the police officers raised his hands placatingly to the two hags, obviously unhappy with the situation. Frankly, Timothy couldn't blame him, a muggle lad trying to mug a hag, and getting caught by muggle policemen, who were now talking to the obviously not-normal victims and the small crowd of witnesses, one of whom was blatantly a vampire. Where did all this end?

"Wulfric," he gestured at the surrounding crowds, "this is…I don't even know where to begin."

Wulfric's laugh sounded slightly hysterical. "This isn't a breaking of the Statute of Secrecy, Timmo, this is so far past it, it might as well be in a galaxy far, far away."

Timothy rolled his eye. "Right. There's nothing we can do right now but observe. Cup of tea?" He pointed to the café set in the middle of the hall.

The café had invested in a large potted orange tree (magically maintained) which was utterly infested with tree fairies, underneath which were set chairs and tables. The tables even had red and white gingham tablecloths. Initially, it looked charming, but…

He glared as a couple of the blasted little flying pests worked together to manoeuvre a sugar cube out of the bowl and into a net he suspected had been made from the shed hair of customers.

"Blasted little nuisances," he muttered as the tree fairies flew off.

"They'll be back for more," Wulfric smiled over his coffee cup.

"We need Aurors permanently stationed here in Godric's Hollow," Timothy said suddenly, "except…" he looked around, "we can't. They're bound by oath to uphold the Statute of Secrecy, not to mention all the laws relating to the magical alteration of muggle objects. They would destroy all of this," he gestured to the cheerful chaos of the market, "and I'm not sure that's such a good idea."

Wulfric gave him a funny look. "And that's before they started looking at the Big Boss and his business activities a little too closely…so what then, because something needs to be done. It's like a free for all, there's no regulation or enforcement relating to the magical side of things at all, and when the two mix..." he grimaced. "Who's making sure that the acromantula eggs are genuine and aren't being sold to the underage, or that nobody is substituting cheaper ingredients in the potions on sale? Do we even know whether the magical alterations to muggle technology that that guy back there was doing are safe, that they aren't going to suddenly burst into flames or something? Or what about the sheer number of erm…creatures, and I speak as one of them here, what about laws pertaining to them and their rights…do we see this as an opportunity to make things better?"

Timothy scrubbed at his face with a hand, feeling as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. "We're going to have to liaise with the local Police ourselves and just enforce what we can…as for the law…we've got that constitution Carrow put together, I don't know whether he considered the magical side of things though. You know what he's like." He grimaced. "I'll have to have a look and see what I can put together."

"No, you're not," Wulfric gave him a severe look, "you've got enough on your plate right now. _Delegate,_ Timmo."

Timothy almost sagged into his chair with relief. "Fine, fine, I'll talk to Curtis about arranging something, maybe get Percy in on it too…possibly Carrow too. This is something that needs dealing with as a matter of some urgency."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The fluttering of the servo-skulls overhead was drowned out by the hissing screams of a half grown acromantula as it died messily in the duelling pit below them.

"Hey, nice going Nev," Ron shouted down to his friend.

Neville looked up with a bashful grin. "Thanks guys…do you think Gran would get me a new sword for Christmas if I asked nicely?"

"Worth a try," Millie said, "are you going to get out so can I have a turn now?"

Neville laughed as he scrambled out, his sweaty fringe stuck to his forehead. Millie leapt down with a whoop, her sword ready as the grating on the next cell rose up, releasing its hostage creature.

"So…how's the search going?" Greg asked as he leant on the balustrade, watching as Millie ferociously attacked a dire wolf below.

"Well, you know…" Ron trailed off with a shrug as he craned his neck to where Carrow sat behind the teacher's desk, working on something in the small space Artemis had left him. She had sprawled across the desk top, paws and tail flopping off the edge and appeared to be fast asleep, though the occasional twitch suggested that that could quickly change if something interesting happened.

It had been rather nice of Carrow to let them use the classroom for some extra sparring in the evenings, like an informal non-magical defence club. They got in some extra sparring while Carrow did his marking and other paper work, and occasionally giving them tips.

Nearby Hermione was attempting to spar with Luna Lovegood, but she seemed to be spending most of her time trying to teach the rather distracted Ravenclaw how to stand, how to hold her guard, how to punch, how to make a fist even.

"Thumb on the outside, Luna," Hermione said for what seemed like the hundredth time that evening as she ducked a wild swing from the other girl. Taking advantage, she swung in with a hook that connected with a solid thunk, leaving Luna sprawled on the floor groaning and clutching her jaw.

Ron and Greg winced in sympathy. "Oooh, that's going to sting," Greg said.

"Luna, are you all right?" Hermione crouched down next to her, a look of concern on her normally cold face. "Let me have a look…I don't think I've broken it…no, not broken, but I think you're going to have one heck of a bruise tomorrow," she said as she gently felt along the other girl's jaw.

"Erm, yeah, paintings," Ron muttered as they turned back to the ferocious fighting going on below, "yeah…I went around the seventh floor yesterday and asked who I could. There were some nuns, they seemed fine with me at first, but then I mentioned Bjarki Snowmane. I didn't realise nuns _knew_ words like that, honestly it was awful the things they called me, and when I tried the other portraits, they weren't much better, either calling me names or refusing to talk to me. I think Snowmane had managed to annoy a lot of people."

Greg laughed. "Yeah, I had something like that in the East tower, except it was some Lord or other in a fancy ruff. Something like… _keep his grubby hands of my wife_ …his wife didn't seem to think the same though, she kept giggling…but yeah, still don't who this Elizabeth Montrose-Smythe is…"

They stared sadly down into the duelling pit where Millie had rather messily finished off her dire-wolf and was now wrestling a bear. "Isn't that Neville?" Ron asked after a moment when it became clear that Millie really wasn't trying that hard to kill it. "It is, isn't it," Greg said with a thoughtful frown, "something about the way the fur sticks up around his ears."

"Luna," Hermione's frantic hiss had them whirling round to see what the unpredictable and strange girl was up to now. To their mutual dread and fascination, she had approached the teacher's desk and was letting a very alert Artemis sniff her hands, doing her best to imitate the chuffing sounds the tiger was making. Behind Artemis, Carrow was watching the exchange with far too much interest for most people's comfort.

"Professor Carrow," Luna said, "why have you got bits of Robbie Jellyman inside you?"

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The robotic arm unfolded silently into the darkness taking its precious cargo with it, the octagonal tube of the satellite hanging from the end like some strange insect, its solar panels wrapped around its body for protection.

"Ready for release," the voice crackled over the helmet radio of the God-Emperor's pressure suit.

"Ready," came the reply.

Slowly, the claw of the robotic arm opened, leaving the satellite marooned on the black of space as it slowly curled up again, retreating back inside Big Bertha, or _Hammer of Justice_ as Carrow had insisted on having gilded on the nose.

"Making contact," a new voice crackled over the radio, a pause and then, "contact made."

The God-Emperor breathed a sigh of relief. If Ground Control hadn't been able to establish contact then the last few months of work would have all been for nothing and what sat out there would be just be little more that a very large paper weight.

"Retro-thrusters firing," the voice crackled again.

There was a small anxious lag before the satellite's thrusters flared into life, pushing it further away from the shuttle craft as it followed Ground Control's instructions, delicately manoeuvring into a higher orbit.

The now distant satellite rotated slightly as its solar panels began to unfurl, the delicate tracery of their efficiency boosting runic arrays glinting in the stark sunlight.

There was more crackling and hissing over the radio, snatches of conversation as Ground Control began testing the satellite and its numerous functions. It seemed to be going well so far. Hopefully by the end of the week they'd have their very first set of data and a beginning to the mapping of Earth's energy lines. He couldn't wait to examine them.

But still…he wouldn't pass up this opportunity for anything, to actually experience space first hand, the sheer unimaginable depth of the void, the stars…so many, crisp unwavering pin-points of light, each one potentially harbouring other worlds never before seen or touched by human hands…and over there stretching out before him lay the Milky Way, millions, billions of worlds and there, the intense conglomeration that was the hub of the galaxy…

He reached out…it was so close he could almost touch it…no wonder Xander was so restless all the time.

"Jon," Senior Arithmancer Strange called, "are you all right? We need to close the hold doors now…"

Jon blinked at her owlishly where she stood by the door controls, her red and yellow pressure suit vibrantly bright in the grey space of the hold.

"Ah, yes sorry," he grinned sheepishly as he moved further in, his magnetised boot soles clanking as he walked, "one down, two to go."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The breeze sweeping across the rooftops was icy at best bringing a promise of frost ad freezing rain.

"It's a good job we're not affected by the cold isn't it being, you know…technically dead?" Annie said cheerfully as she observed their target through omnioculars.

Caroline glared at her as she huddled under her cloak in the dark. "Speak for yourself," she grumbled, "the sooner we're back in the warm the better…and how did we get stuck with this thankless task again?"

"Because," Annie said, "Charles fell asleep on the roof and nearly rolled off into the alley. Not very covert."

"That would have given someone a headache," Caroline said, glaring thoughtfully at the boarding house they were currently observing.

Despite looking rundown it was obviously heavily occupied, at this time of evening lights blazing from many of the windows. Some people could afford curtains or had improvised with old sheets. One person had even mended their cracked window glass with spell-o-tape.

A couple were putting their baby to bed in an improvised crib, little more than a large basket with old towels for a mattress. Above them, a young woman sat at her dressing table brushing her long hair while reading a book.

"Isn't it time for his evening crap?" Caroline said. "Seriously, this man is so _dull_."

"Yes it certainly is," Annie said as she peered through the omnioculars, "oh look, there he goes." She followed him as he plodded down the stairs, disappearing and reappearing from view until he came out into the yard, Daily Prophet tucked under his arm as he headed towards the communal privies.

"Seriously, who has a poo at exactly the same time every evening," Caroline grumbled, "the man's a freak."

"Must be all those tinned sardines he eats, keeping him regular." Annie froze, "wait…someone's going up the stairs, but I don't recognise either of them."

"Then _they_ must have paid the House Keeper off, the nosy old harpy," Caroline said as she rearranged her cloak in an attempt to ward off the chilly breeze, "unless they're relatives or friends of one of the other lodgers or something."

"Then why are they banging on Marty's door?" Annie said.

"Well, obviously they can't be friends of his," Caroline snapped, "otherwise they'd know it was Marty's scheduled poo time."

"Oh, fizz-wizz," Annie exclaimed, "they've picked his lock…did you bug his flat?"

"Course I did," Caroline glared at her friend's back indignantly as she pulled a data-slate from her shoulder bag. Quickly she flipped its protective cover up, waking it from its quiescent state.

Using a stylus she activated the relevant application, a sudden hissing and murmur filling the air. Annie turned and glared at her as she scrambled for the headphones before anyone was alerted to their presence.

"Sorry, sorry," she muttered as she shoved the headphone plug into its socket plunging the rooftop back into silence.

"For Merlin's sake Caroline," Annie hissed. They quickly scanned the surrounding area tense and wary for the slightest possibility someone had noticed them, but the night stayed peaceful and still.

Caroline turned her attention back to the data-slate, "it's certainly picking up all right, and the auto-transcribe seems to be functioning all right…I think Marty is about to have his first exciting evening in months."

"You don't say, heavies sent to rough him up," Annie sighed, "the silly idiot. What did he think would happen if he kept gambling like that…any idea who sent them?"

"Not yet," Caroline muttered distractedly as she watched the transcription scroll slowly down the screen, "they're just moaning about the weather…"

Coughing drifted up from the yard and Annie turned the omnioculars down. "Oh, looks like poo time is over. I wonder…what part of the Daily Prophet do you think he wipes his arse with? I'm thinking the editorial."

"But they've really improved the last couple of years," Caroline pointed out, "I think the Horoscopes. Divination is a load of old crock, but theirs are really awful. I reckon they use a hamster and a bag of scrabble letters to write them."

Annie gave her a funny look. "You have far too much time on your hands if you're coming up with things like that." She turned back to her observations. "Wait…one of them's a woman…never seen her before…don't know. The shorter one's a bloke. Can't get a good look at him."

Caroline shifted closer, holding the headphones up so they could share. There wasn't much noise at first and then a click and a thunk as Marty re-entered his flat, a rattle of keys and then…

"Wha…ha…what the hell!" Marty's panicked voice came over the headphones clearly. "How the hell did you get in here?"

"Talk about stupid questions," Annie muttered.

"Hello Marty," the woman spoke, her voice full of amusement, "anybody would think you were avoiding us. How terribly rude of you, don't you think, Poxy Pete?"

"Yep, very rude," Poxy Pete said, his voice thick and uneducated.

"We do things to rude people," the woman carried on, "really _bad_ things, especially when they owe the boss money. How much does he owe, Pete?"

"Three thousand, eight hundred and seventy six galleons and two knuts," Pete said with relish, "I reckon that's a fair bit of dough. Think of all the nice things you could buy with that."

"Yeah, exactly," the woman sniggered as Marty whimpered in the background, "anybody would think you couldn't afford to pay it back. Funny how," there was a crash as if a piece of furniture had been kicked out of the way, "when we asked around we found out you owed money to the Cat Alley gang as well…"

"And old Cuthbert Perks," Poxy Pete added.

"Tell us something new," Annie grumbled sourly as she glared at the window across the cobbled yard.

"And him too, hence your avoiding The Old Speckled Hen all of a sudden," the woman shouted as Marty sobbed and pleaded in the background. Caroline and Annie winced as an agonised scream came over the headphones followed by broken sobbing.

"I hate people who run out on their debts," the woman snarled, low and nasty. "Personally, I'd kill you nice and slow, but frankly you're so pathetic it would be a waste of my time, so…"

There was a pause as Marty whimpered brokenly.

"Look at that Pete, barely started, but he's sobbing like a baby," the woman said in utter disgust.

"And he's wet himself too," Pete helpfully pointed out.

"You know Marty," the woman said, "there is a way you can at least pay a little of your debt off."

Marty hiccupped, "uh…uh…uh?"

"Is he even capable?" Pete asked dubiously. "Seriously, you've hardly done a thing and he's turned into a quivering jelly. Remember that little old lady on Side Alley? Tough as nails she was."

"That she was. Still tried to hex us even after we broke her legs," the woman said. "Who knew someone would have a back-up wand for their back-up wand? So, how about it Marty? Are you capable of running a little errand for us?"

"Y…ye…yes," Marty managed to choke out.

"Good boy, Marty," the woman simpered. "Give him the parcel, Pete."

There was some more rustling and a muffled "oomph" as something hard was slammed into something fleshy, probably Marty.

"Deliver it to this address," the woman snarled, " _tonight._ If you don't we'll know, and next time…well, let's say Pete used to be an apprentice butcher."

oOo

"That's definitely his old school bag," Annie muttered as their target hastily stuffed his scrunched up robe into a battered mended shoulder bag.

"Look, it's like the one the Big Boss gave Felix for school," Caroline commented "but the economy edition."

"And then the little spark spent several days trying to see how much he could fit in it," Annie grinned to herself, "Timothy put a stop to it in the end when the furball tried stuffing one of the dining room chairs in…he nearly succeeded too."

Caroline gave a soft huff of laughter. "Looks like Marty is going through into the Muggle world," she pointed out as Marty pulled out his wand and began to tap the bricks of this particular back entrance to Knockturn.

"Oh blast it," Annie grumbled, "pray he doesn't get on public transport or something, because if he does, we're stuffed."

"Forget that," Caroline snarled as she shimmed down a cast-iron drainpipe dodging an overprotective wooden gargoyle as she went, "we've got to get through the back entrance without alerting him."

"We could always jump over," Annie suggested as she landed cat-like nest to her friend on the cobbled street.

Caroline shook her head. "And you know that never goes well. We could end up _anywhere_ if we did that…no, we've got to go through and hope he's not standing on the other side drooling to himself or something."

To their relief the narrow alley this particular back entrance of Knockturn led out on to was empty apart from stray litter and the lingering odour of stale urine.

"Quick, which way did he go?" Annie hissed frantically as they raced down the alley, trying to be as quiet as they could.

Looking left and right, they tried to spot him. Fortunately, the street they had come out on was fairly quiet, only an occasional car slowly drifting past in between the rows of parked vehicles.

"Look," Annie said, baring her teeth triumphantly, " _there_."

Across the road, sporting a shabby beige coat that looked like it had once belonged to his grandfather, walked Marty. He seemed to be trying to look as normal and non-furtive as possible, meaning he actually stuck out like a sore thumb.

The two vampires hurried across the road and began to follow their quarry as he skittered across the pavement, having nearly collided with a lamppost, so complete was his distraction.

"I think the Big Boss could tail this idiot in that heavy armour of his," Caroline muttered as they went round a corner, waiting patiently for a red double-decker bus to go past.

"…in that stupid tank thing. He really wouldn't notice at all," Annie said as Marty collided with a bin, looking more frantic and stressed than ever. Standing in the middle of the pavement, he pulled out a dog-eared A-Z, flicking through the pages with shaking fingers.

"Unbelievable," Caroline sneered, "he's lost."

Annie peered around the bus shelter they were currently lurking in. "Maybe we should give him directions. It would speed this up, wouldn't it?" But before they could do so, Marty seemed to finally gain his bearings, striding forward now with great urgency.

Ten minutes later, he came to a halt outside an office building, an unremarkable 1960s concrete and glass affair. Annie dodged back behind a grubby red transit van as Marty began to pace nervously on the pavement, looking round as he did so.

"Now what?" Caroline whispered.

"Now we wait," Annie said, her expression grim.

"Again," Caroline agreed.

It began to drizzle, a fine mist in the wind that clung to everything, clothing, street furniture, eyelashes. The road became even quieter, a lone pedestrian with a garish umbrella hurrying past head down, shoulders hunched.

"Oh, so you're here," an unfamiliar voice came from across the road.

They peered round the transit van to find a very damp Marty being confronted by a expensively suited man with a black umbrella.

"Well," the stranger demanded, "give me the parcel then." Marty gaped at him fish like clutching the front of his coat.

"Yes, yes…erm," he frantically scrabbled in his shoulder bag.

"You must be new," the stranger sounded almost amused, "otherwise you would have know to ring the bell."

Marty almost tossed the parcel at the man, backing away nervously as the stranger gave him a toothy grin. "Not one of _hers,_ are you? Probably owe her something don't you," he chuckled darkly, "get lost then, I doubt we'll meet again…unless you end up as one of _her_ experiments, of course."

He laughed as Marty bolted across the road, Annie having to dive out of his way as he nearly ran them over.

"Quick, quick," Annie picked herself up ready to sprint after their quarry.

"Wait," Caroline hissed, "what about the parcel?"

Annie stared at her.

"We always knew he was a know-nothing muppet in over his head," Caroline said, "but that parcel…"

"Fine," Annie sighed, "but you'd better to be right about this, otherwise the Big Boss isn't going to be impressed."

Peering round the van, they found that the strange man had continued down the road, his umbrella bobbing above the line of parked cars. They trailed after him at a distance, round a corner, into another narrower and even quieter street.

Suddenly, he whirled round, eyes narrow behind their glasses as he glared suspiciously at the street around him.

From her place sprawled on the pavement, Caroline pointed to a nearby jitty. "Up," she mouthed. Annie nodded as she quickly crab-walked into the little alley, swarming up the walls and onto the rooftops, Caroline not far behind her.

"Damn, that was close," Annie muttered as she caught her breath, watching the strange man as he crossed the road, intent on checking for malingers on the other side.

"Too right," Caroline glowered "we're going to have to follow him on the rooftops."

"Whose great idea was this?" Caroline snarled ten minutes later as they attempted to negotiate the disparate height of two adjoining and very smooth, glass and steel buildings, all the while without losing their quarry.

"Yours," Annie snapped back as she made a particularly tricky jump, skidding uncomfortably on the slick roof as she landed.

"That's strange," Caroline growled as she followed, "I seem to remember something about you going up first, isn't that taking the lead? Therefore this is all your fault."

"Wait," Annie flapped a hand impatiently, "he's just entered that…I think it's a car-park, a multi-storey car-park. Come on, let's get down from here."

Even with their preternatural speed they struggled to catch up with their target.

"Are you sure he isn't one of us?" Caroline muttered from where she crouched behind a boring silver car.

The man turned from where he was putting the parcel and his briefcase in the boot of his car, glaring around the bleak concrete space of the car-park suspiciously, the stark fluorescent lighting glinting off his glasses.

"See," Caroline hissed triumphantly as the man slammed the boot of his car shut. Annie ignored her as she filmed the man's every movement with the omnioculars. The car-door slammed, a pause and then the engine started, the car slowly backing out of its space before turning away.

Caroline made to move but Annie hissed frantically at her to stay still. To Caroline's surprise the sound of the car increased again as it slowly made its way back. Obviously, the boring man was considerably more observant than Marty had ever been. Instinctively the two vampires flattened themselves down, trying to make themselves as small and invisible as possible.

The car crawled past them and then away as the boring man finally headed for the exit ramp, apparently satisfied that he had been alone after all.

Letting out a huge whoosh of air, Annie sat bolt upright. "Let's get out of here," she demanded, "before he can come back."

Caroline couldn't agree with her more.

"It's a disaster," Annie moaned as they sat in a bus shelter safe from the rain, "we lost Marty and then we lost that new bloke," she leant her head on Caroline's shoulder with a miserable sigh.

"You've got a pretty good look at his car didn't you," Caroline pointed out.

"Yeah, and him," Annie said, "I recorded everything I could."

"So you've got his number plate thingie," Caroline carried on.

"Which means we can find out more about him, his name, his address…" Annie almost smiled, "I'm sure the Big Boss has people who know how to do that…which means this hasn't all been a total loss."

"Exactly," Caroline smiled feeling quite smug.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Huh, Uncle Sev looks nervous," Ron said round a mouthful of cake.

Hermione looked up from her Arithmancy textbook to find Professor Snape standing with the Headmaster at the podium.

She shut her book with a snap as the remains of dinner disappeared, a tingle of nerves in the pit of her stomach; was this…

"I was eating that," Ron moaned. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"If I could have your attention please," the Headmaster tapped his wand against the podium for silence, "before you all go off to your common rooms Professor Snape has an announcement I'm sure will interest you all." He smiled at them cheerfully.

Professor Snape, by contrast, looked as if he would happily drink bubotuber pus if it meant he could be somewhere, anywhere, else.

"Thank you, Headmaster," he growled.

"Uncle Sev isn't having a very good day," Ron whispered loudly, ducking down when Hermione glared at him.

"This year," they watched as Snape glared around the hall, "the School will be holding a tournament…"

"Yes, yes," he shouted over the protests, "there will be Quidditch this year, you uncultured louts."

There was a smattering of delighted cheers.

"A tournament," Snape continued sourly, "to test your knowledge, your cunning, your strength, your nerve…"

Hermione raised her eyebrows, surprised. Yes, a tournament as she had proposed, but it looked like the Professors had taken the opportunity to change it up a bit.

"Look at Carrow," Neville whispered, "talk about if looks could kill."

Ron almost laughed as he looked along the High Table to find Professor Carrow glowering darkly.

"…form teams of up to seven members, who may be from any house…"

Excited and surprised whispering spread across the Great Hall.

"…need a balance of skills and talents within your team. Those wishing to compete need to register their teams with me…"

"Teams," Ron hissed, "there's more than seven of us."

"So?" Hermione shrugged. "We'll just make more than one."

"Looks like the topic of discussion for the next meeting," Neville said.

"…deadline for registration is the 17th October. Choose wisely," Professor Snape glared around the Hall, before walking back to his chair at the High Table as conversation exploded across the student tables.

The Headmaster loudly cleared his throat, obviously amused at the excitement. "I'm sure you're all very excited about this tournament, but now it is time for bed. Off you go, chop chop." He clapped his hands.

The students surged to their feet as one, and surged out of the Hall and back to their common rooms.

"Hey guys," Greg shouted as he waded through the crowd towards them, Millie trailing in his wake, "what are we going to do about teams then?"

"There's enough of us for two," Hermione said, "how about we…"

"You lead one team then," Greg said, "and I…"

"I'll lead the other," Millie piped up, surprising them all. "What?" she said at their stares, "I'm more than capable."

"I'll be on your team, Millie," Neville said.

Millie beamed happily. "Thanks, Nev."

"WHO'S BLOCKING THE HALL?" Snape's bellow of annoyance had them jerking round, to find a group of disgruntled Hufflepuffs who'd been trying to get past them for the last five minutes. It really didn't help that the Castle decided to add to the fun and began to pelt them with lime green rubber ducks.

"You can socialise somewhere else," Snape growled at them as he strode through the crowd, holding a black umbrella decorated with fluttering bats, "it's not as if you're lacking in personal time. Now scram!" He pointed a pale bony finger towards the main staircase.

Carrow's clock began to strike the hour with the delicate tinkling of severed metal heads and the spraying of artificial blood.

"See, even that dreadful clock agrees with me," Snape smirked at them.

"Sorry Professor," they chorused, diving for their respective common rooms before Professor Snape got creative and gave them all detentions with Hagrid, mucking out the hippogriffs or something.

"Well blast it," Ron muttered as they charged up the stairs, leaping over the gap as it began to move, "I wanted to ask them about the portrait hunt."

"We've talked to just about all of them, haven't we?" Neville sighed. "Not exactly my idea of a fun evening, especially when that crowd of nuns asked us why, and then started shouting and swearing and throwing things at us."

"Obviously Mr Snowmane must get around," Ron muttered back, as they passed Professor McGonagall, who gave them a suspicious look. "So who haven't we asked?"

They drifted off into gloomy silence as they plodded up the stairs towards the Gryffindor common room.

"We haven't asked the Fat Lady," Hermione pointed out as they came to a halt outside the common room entrance and the portrait in question.

"Huh," Ron perked up, "we haven't, have we?"

"No, we haven't," Neville agreed.

"Hey," Dean shouted from behind them, "some of us want to get to bed."

Seamus glared, as he and his friend shoved past them, the Fat Lady opening as they climbed into the common room. "Bloody weirdos," he growled as he slammed the portrait closed behind him.

"Charming," Ron growled as Hermione glared at the portrait door.

"They're just a pair of losers," Hermione snapped, "don't pay them any mind. We've got more important things to do."

"Like asking portraits if they've seen or know this Elizabeth Montrose-Smythe," Neville sighed, "we must be really desperate."

"Yes?" the Fat Lady looked at them enquiringly as she delicately fanned herself.

They stared at her, and then down at her portrait's nameplate, which said…

"You're Elizabeth Montrose-Smythe?" Ron said, "of all the…" he threw his hands up in exasperation.

"Always the last place you look," Neville sighed.

"Are you going to dawdle out here all evening or are you coming in?" the Fat Lady snapped, obviously beginning to lose her patience with them.

"Well actually," Hermione said fiddling with the skull beads on her braid, "we were looking for you, erm…Bjarki Snowmane asked us to seek you out so we could recommend him to you…"

The Fat Lady sat back on her piece of classical ruin, watching them with carefully concealed amusement. "He did, did he?" Her lips twitched.

"Yes," Hermione soldiered on, "he is…how did he describe himself…mighty and strong, a man of great deeds…"

"And much beer drinking," Neville helpfully added.

"Yeah and that too," Hermione nodded.

The Fat Lady was openly smirking now, arms folded over her ample bosom. "Really, now. Hmm, I'll consider it." She gave them an indulgent smile as her portrait swung open, revealing the Gryffindor common room beyond.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

It was as if his Godfather was attempting to live inside the Sun, Carrow thought as he ducked through the front door of No.12 Grimmauld Place, Charles and Edwin following him behind. The man seemed to be obsessed with light; he glared at the sparkling chandelier as he dodged around it. It was, he supposed, understandable, given Azkaban wasn't exactly known for the brightness and airiness of its cells; and so now Sirius Black was overcompensating.

He watched as his Godfather greeted another guest, Madam Longbottom, with a rather strained smile. "…nice of you to come. My house-elf has laid on refreshments in the living room."

"Marvellous," Madam Longbottom said, "and I hope you're keeping out of trouble?"

Sirius seemed to shrink down into his robes. "Well, yes. Of course I am. I'm a reformed character, I'll have you know."

Madam Longbottom gave him a disbelieving sniff. "Are the others all ready here?" she asked.

"Yup. Already in the living room…I recommend the lemon drizzle cake, by the way," he called after the older lady, as she strolled further into the house.

Carrow grinned down at the smaller man as he turned round. "Oh no! It's you!" Sirius squawked, leaping back dramatically.

"But of course," Carrow's grin broadened, "who else would I be?"

Sirius laughed sarcastically as the vampires made their presence known.

"My goodness me," Charles exclaimed, "the _Snack!_ "

"As I live and breathe," Edwin clasped his hands dramatically to his chest, "he survived. Freedom seems to be suiting you well."

"Yes, yes, it's good to see you both too," Sirius grimaced as he put up with the friendly jostling and back pats. "So…the Headmaster invited you to his little shindig."

"Indeed," Carrow said, "I hadn't realised that the Headmaster was such a social creature."

Sirius laughed nervously. "Well, you know," he shrugged, "when you're surrounded by children all day, must be nice to get some adult company occasionally."

A little bored at the forced socialising, Carrow glanced round, his eyes widening minutely as he took in one of the paintings hanging on the wall. It was nice to know when a gift was appreciated.

"Heh, you know I never did thank you properly," Sirius said.

Carrow gave him a quizzical look.

"About Weasley's Wizard Wheezes," Sirius grinned up at him bouncing on his heels, "we've been mainly doing business by owl post while they finish off their education, though this year of course I've got more opportunities to go up to Hogwarts and that…well, we're planning on opening the shop next summer, just in time to catch the Hogwarts trade. Should be good," his grin broadened to almost manic proportions, "we've found a prime location and everything on Diagon Alley, with a flat above so the lads are going to…"

" _Cooee_ ," a shrill female voice called out.

Sirius's face fell. "Merlin's saggy balls," he groaned hurrying forward, "bloody old hag," he muttered, as he attempted to pull the velvet curtain back in front of his mother's portrait, "always pick your moments don't you," he snarled.

Watching in bemusement, Carrow couldn't help but notice that the frothing lacy and heavily corseted dress that Mrs Black was attired in would have been quite lovely on someone eighty years her junior, and her approach to face paint reminded him heavily of one world he'd visited (thankfully briefly) where the ruling classes had adorned their faces with patterns and colours as part of a rigid system of rules denoting season, circumstances and mood. It had been very annoying, and very garish.

"Come on," Sirius bellowed, "just this once, you spiteful old cow. You can moon over your bloody boyfriend later."

"Hateful hippo-dropping of my loins," Mrs Black snarled in her son's face before peering over his shoulder, fluttering her eyelashes with a sickly smile as she waggled her fingers in greeting.

Carrow followed her line of sight. It was nice to see that Brother Librarian Octavius was stalwart in the face of her flirtations.

oOo

"…now we're all here," Headmaster Dumbledore beamed happily around the hodge-podge gathering from his place on the sofa, "we can finally get down to business."

Carrow narrowed his eyes thoughtfully; business…what sort of business? The Headmaster had been unusually opaque about such matters, even for him. No matter, his mole in the Headmaster's little political group was present as were Alastor Moody and Severus Snape, though he couldn't help but notice that the Potions Master was looking a little pale, even for him.

He was sure with a little prompting he could get a fuller picture of Headmaster Dumbledore's thinking on this occasion.

"As some of you aware, Voldemort…"

Most of the people in the room gasped in horror. Carrow rolled his eyes in exasperation. For Throne's sake, these people were so embarrassingly sheltered from reality.

"Yes, _Voldemort_ ," the Headmaster continued, "is not only not deceased, but has regained a…how should I put this…a physical form?" He frowned thoughtfully at Carrow.

How much could he really tell them? Carrow considered the problem a moment. "Indeed," he boomed.

The Headmaster smiled sweetly at him, apparently expecting clarification. Carrow stared back.

"Precisely what is this gathering in aid of?" Carrow asked.

"Oh, didn't I say?" Dumbledore said.

Carrow rolled his eyes in exasperation, waiting for the Headmaster to get to some sort of point.

"During the last war, a group of us decided enough was enough and got together to help the fight against Voldemort in any way we could," Dumbledore said brightly, "those of us here are what is left of the Order of Phoenix, with a few new faces, of course." He smiled at the young lady with violently pink hair. To Carrow's vexation, her hair shifted and deepened to a vivid crimson as her face flushed unnaturally, the colour disappearing as quickly as it appeared.

A secret society with vigilante tendencies, just typical. Carrow scowled to himself. This needed shutting down fast, before these idiots managed to get themselves hurt.

Dodge made a strangled sound as he slipped from his chair, eyes rolling back in his head as his limbs twitched spasmodically. Carrow watched as his puppet slipped down onto the floor, people leaping to their feet in concern; maybe the man wasn't quite as weak as he'd thought, though he'd taken nearly a year to begin fighting the conditioning, and it was highly doubtful he'd be the same person he was before. These things never tended to end well.

"Mr Dodge! Are you all right?" the pink haired woman exclaimed as she knelt by him wand drawn obviously unsure of what to do.

"It appears to be an epileptic fit of some kind," Carrow commented, his voice carrying over the general distress. "Not much to be done except make sure he doesn't injure himself. Look lively," he growled when they turned and stared at him cow-like, "keep his head away from that chair leg."

The spasms began to die down leaving Dodge limp and shaken where he lay on the floor. "How did I get down here?" he asked obviously bewildered.

oOo

"His new form, such as it is," Carrow looked around the gathering with narrowed eyes, "is not human and is extremely dangerous."

Dumbledore nodded, his smile serious. "Yes, considering the severity of the injuries he dealt you…Severus?" he turned to the Potions Master who was currently lurking in a corner with Moody, his mouth full of cake. Lemon drizzle, Carrow couldn't help but notice.

"Has Voldemort summoned you to his side?" Dumbledore asked.

Uncomfortable at the question and the sudden attention, Severus swallowed painfully. "No…no he has not."

"If he does, do not respond," Carrow said sharply.

Severus opened his mouth, in protest perhaps, Carrow wasn't sure as he held up a hand. "I understand that you acted as a spy prior to his untimely de-corporalisation, but this time is different. If you go to his side, wherever he is, you will not return. Maybe something that looks like you will return, but it will not be you."

Severus subsided, his expression blank, dark eyes intent.

"Come to me and I will ensure your safety," Carrow said firmly.

"Are you sure?" Dumbledore asked.

"Yes," Carrow said with absolute certainty, "this will not be a repeat of the conflict which you all lived through; your Dark Lord has new allies now. Genuinely dangerous ones."

"The old ones were pretty bloody dangerous too," someone muttered darkly.

"Except they're all dead now," Moody gave them all a nasty grin, "just two left. Severus here, and Igor Karkaroff, and I don't expect to see that yellow-bellied coward outside the confines of Durmstrang's wards for the rest of his natural life. As for Severus…" he looked at his now friend, "he was never truly one of them, despite his carrying the Mark."

"The Mark?" Carrow frowned.

Snape silently pulled his sleeve up revealing his bandaged forearm for examination.

"A direct link?" Carrow growled as he closely examined the swollen angry mess that was Snape's forearm. The dark mark stood out starkly against the angry red flesh. Directly around the mark itself was a pale yellow area that constantly weeped fluid, and the smell…Carrow sniffed the air delicately. Yes, the smell of taint was faint but highly distinctive, sweet and rotten and foul.

"Nothing I do seems to work," Snape said his voice shaking slightly as Carrow gently traced a red tendril of infection that seemed to be working its way up his arm. "I've tried everything, balms and salves, potions and ointments. Nothing seems to work on it. I've even tried Phoenix tears but it just seems to be keeping it from spreading..."

"They won't work," Carrow said with utter finality as he dropped the smaller man's arm. "We need to go now," he surged to his feet ushering Snape in front of him as he made for the door.

"What are you doing?!" Snape snarled his voice carrying over the surprised and outraged shouts of the rest of the so-called Order of the Phoenix.

Carrow ignored his protest as he pushed the man out of the door. "I'm saving your life," he growled as he grabbed Snape's arm and physically dragged him to the front door, "you are linked on the ethereal plane to a being that is now little more than a plaything for a daemon. Can you not see the urgency of the situation?"

Snape's protests trailed off and he finally stopped struggling. "A daemon," he whispered.

Carrow looked down to find Snape staring back up at him, face pale as a ghost, dark eyes desperate and haunted. "Have faith little one," Carrow said as he pushed Snape out of the front door.


	5. Chapter 5

**Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.**

 **I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.**

* * *

Author's Note

Wow I can't believe I've managed to finally finish this chapter. This one seems to have just gone on forever and fought me every step of the way just throwing up difficulties right, left and centre. It seems I've finally managed to best it into submission :-)

Thank-you for your patience and enjoy…

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

The Giant Lump was practically dragging him as he marched down barren corridors underneath the Potter family home he hadn't even known existed, or maybe he was still disoriented from Carrow's unique form of fast-travel. Snape could quite happily say he never wanted to do _that_ again.

Just what was Carrow up to, and could he stop him? A sharp jab of pain ran up his left arm, the Dark Mark itching non-stop, a blazing patch of heat on his arm…but if Carrow knew of some way to get rid of the bloody thing then he was all for it. Hell, at this point he'd chop his own arm off if he thought it would work.

Of course, it wouldn't. There'd been that nasty occurrence when some poor lug had been blackmailed into taking the mark, John something. Blast his memory for playing tricks on him. John, definitely a Hufflepuff, had hacked his own arm off in a desperate attempt to escape the Death Eaters. He'd died within days as his body busily destroyed itself…and then the Death Eaters had descended on his poor bereaved family and butchered them. There were times when he really hated his life…

Carrow was now pushing him through double doors, the self-closing kind so common in muggle buildings and into a warm and stuffy corridor that was as cluttered as the others had been empty. There was something wrong with the lighting as well, too bright, he squinted, and why did everything seem to have rainbow auras? It was more than a little disturbing, and that's before he got onto the actual clutter itself.

He stared in disbelief at an office chair that had been oddly modified with bits of wood, a shoe box and a small cube of granite incised with runes. Someone had even scratched runes into the plastic edging of the seat. There was a plaque on the wall above it but Carrow pulled him past before he could catch more than a glimpse.

It was strange, Snape thought, the closer they got to the doors at the end of the corridor; the more oppressive the heat, the harder it was to breath, the more painfully bright the lights. If Carrow hadn't got a good hold of him he'd have stumbled over his own feet by now and fallen face first into the junk that littered the place, and that would just be embarrassing, wouldn't it?

Somebody had drawn symbols on the floor, a mad flurry of something that looked almost like really advanced Arithmancy but not quite. He even recognised a few of the symbols…maybe. The iron grip on his arm towed him past before he could really make his mind up, his left arm now just a burning throbbing ache that pulsed in sympathy as Carrow rapped sharply on the door before unceremoniously flinging it open, dragging him through into the room beyond, a laboratory, he thought…or he supposed this was what a muggle laboratory looked like.

Dazed, his head swimming, Snape gazed around at the strange boxy equipment that lined the walls, small lights blinking on some of them, a computer screen displaying tables of numbers, more things he couldn't even begin to guess at the purpose of, the largest office chair he'd ever seen in his life. It would fit Carrow easily; he looked up, to point this out to the annoying man…

"My Lord," Carrow boomed, actually bowing.

Snape stared up at him in stunned amazement. Carrow, submitting to another? How utterly bizarre; he was definitely hallucinating. He'd obviously accidentally ingested an experimental potion again, and this was all some weird fabrication of some feverish and warped part of his mind.

"Hello, Xander," came an unfamiliar voice, as deep as Carrow's, but with a warmth his never had.

Snape tried to squint past the fuzziness as a large figure stepped into view clad in a long white coat, jeans and a violently yellow t-shirt. The t-shirt had a cat with its paws up on the front with a speech bubble proclaiming _I surrender._ Snape blinked in bewilderment, wincing as the yellow seamed to smear and shimmer in the harsh lighting.

"My Lord," Snape winced as Carrow pulled him forward yanking his left sleeve up, "we have a problem."

"Oh!" this new person, Carrow's "Lord" exclaimed. Large brown hands gently took his own, stripping the dressing off the oozing Dark Mark. The arm throbbed and hummed with pain and Snape gritted his teeth as his vision began to grey around the edges.

Carrow's "Lord" looked at him in concern, giving Snape an impression of an olive complexion, a beaky nose and strong cheek bones, all framed by black locks. It was almost as if the man's hair couldn't quite make its mind up whether it wanted to be curly or wavy, and had gone for some sort of unsatisfactory intermediate state instead…but his eyes…

Snape looked away feeling dazzled, sun-blind as the man gave him a friendly smile flashing strong white teeth. To his bemusement, Carrow's Lord had a distinct gap between his top middle incisors. It seemed oddly human on such an un-Earthly being.

"This is the mark of the Dark Lord you've been telling me about, isn't it?"

Carrow rumbled something in reply but Snape lost it in among the wave of pain that clawed its way up his arm. He groaned under his breath, clenching his right hand so hard he could feel his nails cutting into the palm.

"…connection, the magic linking the two, but…"

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"What?" Snape exclaimed as he opened his eyes to find himself looking at the distressingly familiar sight of the Hospital Wing ceiling. How in Merlin's name had he landed up here? There had been that ridiculous meeting at _Black's_ house…and then Carrow had physically dragged him away because…

He sat bolt upright frantically scrabbling at the sleeve of the sensible grey flannel pyjamas he'd been dressed in to find his left arm…

Snape stared at his forearm in wonder; was he dreaming? He hesitantly touched the pale unremarkable skin as if it might disintegrate back into the oozing mess it had become. It hadn't looked this perfect since his teens.

Beyond the privacy of the curtains that had been drawn around his bed, he could hear the distinct and familiar tapping of Poppy's shoes as she moved down the Infirmary, no doubt to come and harass him, followed by…

"Oh bugger," he swore under his breath as he scrabbled back under the covers. The last person he wanted to see right now was Dumbledore, maybe if he pretended sleep…

"I know you're awake, Severus," Poppy said as she swished the curtains aside, "so you can stop with the act."

Severus gave her a nasty glare, folding his arms over his chest, but she just gave him an indulgent smirk as the Headmaster stepped into view smiling like a sunny summer morning.

"My, Severus, you are looking so much more the thing," the Headmaster gave him a delighted smile. Snape glared at him suspiciously, the man was blatantly up to no good.

"Obviously Allesandor really did know what he was about no matter how alarming it initially appeared," Dumbledore carried on, "are you up to visitors?"

Before Snape could object and insist that no he damn well wasn't up to visitors of any kind especially since he hadn't had any coffee yet, Poppy pounced, casting a series of diagnostic charms that left him tingling and breathless as if he'd rolled in nettles.

"Molly, Arthur…" Snape heard the Headmaster call but all he could manage was a choked protest as Poppy fussed with his pillows demanding he sit more upright.

"Are you going down with a cold?" she asked suspiciously.

"What?!" he managed to splutter. "No, of course not. Don't be ridiculous," he protested as he tried to slink off the other side of the bed, but Poppy was wise to his tactics and stuck him firmly to the bed.

"Oh Severus, we've been so worried about you," a rather blotchy looking Molly Weasley burst through the curtains closely followed by a concerned looking Arthur, "you've been looking so peaky lately and then this happens!"

Snape could only manage a muffled yelp as Molly flung her arms around him clasping him to her ample bosom. It was terrifying. He couldn't breath, he couldn't see, the crushing pressure. He could see it now, the light at the end of the tunnel. After having survived a terrible childhood, the Death Eaters and even the Dark Lord himself, all those curses, the insane dark creatures, even the fume-mad rival brewers, this was it…he was going to suffer the ignoble fate of being smothered to death by giant mammaries.

"Help," he managed to gasp out through the dark crushing pressure.

"Erm, Molly," he faintly heard through the rushing of blood in his ears, "don't you think you should let poor Severus breath now? He has had rather a shock to the system."

Molly reluctantly let go. Snape desperately sucked in precious air, wishing for the umpteenth time that he was alone. He spied Dumbledore, who looked like he was having a certain amount of trouble containing his laughter. It was at times like this he had great difficulties deciding who was more evil and twisted; the Dark Lord or the Headmaster? It really was a close run thing.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

This was a case of if you wanted a job done properly, you were best doing it yourself. Fudge scowled as he strode into the Atrium of the Ministry. Honestly, why were people being so uncooperative? All he wanted was a name.

But nobody would tell him, changing the subject, suddenly finding urgent errands they needed to do, some of them utterly ridiculous. He was fairly certain that budgerigars didn't need taking for walkies, but he was a little hazy about these strange muggle pets. Even his secretary wouldn't help him, instead giving him one of her most disappointed stares until he was forced to leave before he looked like a complete idiot.

It had all been very frustrating and he'd been on the verge of giving up until he'd had a brainwave. Why not go and ask Security himself? He'd even managed to give Faulks the slip by telling him he was just nipping to the lavatory.

He'd jauntily set off down the corridor and then when he was certain no one was watching (especially nosy secretaries) he'd turned right instead of left and nipped into one of the lifts. A cunning plan well realised, he chuckled to himself as he strode up to the security desk.

"Minister Fudge," the new recruit manning the wand-weighing desk looked up in surprise, "may I help you?"

"Ah yes," Fudge bounced on his heels as he looked round the atrium, the fountain still hoarded off, the boarding now covered in various notices and signs and even the odd advert. It was about time they did something about that.

"Yes," he puffed up importantly, "I was wondering if you could look something up for me…an incident with a young man failing the ah, entrance exam and having to be physically removed from the Ministry."

A look of understanding flickered across the young man's face. "I'll see what I can do for you, sir." He turned back to his desk, apparently believing the matter finished with.

"Today, preferably now," Fudge frowned at the apparent lack of respect. Honestly young people nowadays, when he was a lad…

Hiding his reluctance, the young man reached under the desk, pulling out a large, leather bound tome and plonking it on the desk with a soft thump. Ah, the famed _Record of Incidents_ , everything from a plague of frogs in the Atrium in 1762, to an American family of tourists in 1983 who'd wandered in and assumed it was some sort of theme park, to a rather nasty incident just months ago involving someone's pet fwooper getting loose within the Ministry, were all carefully recorded inside. It really was a wonderful record of the daily life of the Ministry.

The young man pulled his wand out and began tapping the spine, muttering under his breath. Under his ministrations the book flipped open, pages riffling wildly.

"There. I've set it for this week, sir," the young man looked up at him expectantly.

"Oh…er yes, excellent," Fudge smiled, "I believe the incident was quite recent, over the last month or so…"

Nodding distractedly, the young man began to examining the book occasionally turning a page, a long finger tracing down the list of entries.

"…yes, he'd come to the Ministry expecting a job, after all his father works here," Fudge carried on, "and then all this bother with the Entrance Exam. He failed it, as if anyone expects to do tests outside of school, and that was that. He was understandably upset…"

The young man gave him an indecipherable look. "Do you mean Caspian Glossop?" he asked slowly. "That does sound a lot like him…there was an incident…"

Fudge blinked in surprise. "Glossop?" But that would be Benedict Glossop's boy. No wonder the lad had expected a position at the Ministry, what with his father being Senior Treasurer, just like _his_ father before him. In fact, if he remembered rightly, the Glossop family had been involved with the Ministry's finances since there had been a Ministry. Glossops and gold went together like goblins and…and…

"Sir," the young man was looking up at him with polite irritation now, "I've found the relevant incident report."

"Oh, wonderful," Fudge chuckled hoping nobody had noticed his mind wandering.

"Right," the young man gave him a sideways glance, "Incident No. 142/1995…proceeded as normal. Observed angry shouting near departmental lifts which drew closer….young man (later identified as Caspian Glossop) exhibiting angry and agitated behaviour while attempting to argue with the security personnel on duty…

"They weren't arguing back?" Fudge asked, quite perplexed.

"Well, no. It's very important to stay calm in these situations," the young man explained, "so they don't escalate. All part of our training." He gave Fudge a tight smile.

Oh, the training, Fudge grimaced, another one of Carrow's little changes. The Ministry's security had been perfectly adequate before, had been that way for decades. Why Carrow felt the need to change everything he touched…

"…the argument unfortunately escalated when a number of junior clerks returned from their lunch break. Glossop began shouting anti muggle-born slurs relating to the Entrance Exam as they passed, meanwhile drawing his wand in an attempt to cast…security personnel intervened, wrestling him to the ground and restraining him there…charged with a Breach of the Peace and Inciting Anti-Muggle-Born Sentiment…and that's it." The young man looked up at him expectantly.

"Goodness! Well…thank-you for your assistance!" Fudge gave a polite nod, and turned away, walking towards the lifts, lost in thought.

Fudge shook his head sadly as he waited. This was all a terrible mess, a young man from a good (and well connected) family denied a prestigious position. He might very well be able to use this to his advantage against Carrow and his minions, for surely the Glossop Patriarch was furious at his progeny being denied something that was theirs by birthright. Yes, surely he'd find a sympathetic ear willing to listen and even help him in bringing Faulks down a peg or two.

As the lift doors began to close behind him he was sure for a moment that he saw a familiar dark and gaunt figure talking to the young man at the Security desk. He blinked; no, he'd been imagining it. Truly, he was getting almost as paranoid as Old Mad-Eye Moody; he chuckled to himself as the lift began to descend, paper memos rustling as they flitted about above his head.

oOo

To his surprise and delight, Benedict Glossop was still in his office, hunched over his desk, quill scribbling across parchment, despite it being so late in the afternoon. Yet another one of those tall gaunt men, Fudge sighed, just like his father had been. Unfortunately, he had always more resembled his mother (like a cottage loaf, she'd always said).

Benedict Glossop looked up from his work, his expression turning politely wary as he took in the identity of his visitor. "Minister Fudge, what can I do for you today?"

"Ah yes…well," Fudge gave the man an uncomfortable smile which wasn't returned. "I'm very sorry to hear about your son. Such a tragedy that, err, Carrow's reforms should deprive him of his rightful employ…"

Glossop senior frowned. "Rightful employ?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Yes of course," Fudge nodded, "Glossops _belong_ at the Ministry, after all."

"Really, Minister," Glossop Sr. practically sneered.

Fudge ignored it and soldiered on. "Exactly. I'm sure your son would be an asset to whatever department he chose to join…"

"Minister Fudge, forgive me for interrupting," Glossop senior said icily, "my _son_ is currently reaping the reward of his own arrogance and entitlement, while dragging the family name through the mud of every Knockturn pub, gambling den and whorehouse he can find. He was given every opportunity to prove himself, and he has failed to do so. His current predicament is entirely of his own making…"

"But," Fudge tried.

"…Both his mother and I tried to instil a good work ethic in him from a young age, but to no avail. No matter how many times we explained to him that things weren't just going to be handed to him on a plate…" he grimaced, dismissing the thought with a frustrated wave of his hand. "I can assure you, Minister, he doesn't deserve a job within the Ministry."

"But…" Fudge tried again.

"No buts, Minister," Glossop glared at him, "my son lacks the work ethic and morals to fit in with the Ministry that we are building here, and that is the end of it. If only he were more like his sisters…" He shook his head with a frustrated sigh.

"What if…" Fudge tried again, even as his hopes began crashing down around him.

"Good afternoon, Minister," Glossop senior snapped, as he went back to his paperwork.

Fudge shuffled away, feeling quite despondent. What did he do now? Glossop quite clearly wasn't going to help him. So much for _family first_ …mind you, if Caspian Glossop was fooling around in the entertainments of Knockturn, then he was going to need a steady flow of Galleons. And if Daddy had cut the purse strings, surely an enterprising young man would be willing to take on a little job in exchange for some gold?

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

He'd had dreams like this over the years; they always started with him just pottering around the little kitchenette of his private quarters, making himself coffee or some other mundane task, and then…he looked down at his arm…strange. The Dark Mark was still gone. Snape touched the perfect unblemished skin of his forearm; no pain, no heat.

In the dreams, of course, it came back in the worst possible way, angry and oozing and malignant, slowly and painfully dissolving his body away even as he desperately tried to stop it in any way he could think of, healing charms, potions, phoenix tears, even trying to hack the affected area out like a muggle…and then he would wake up sweating and shaken, the Mark throbbing worse than ever.

But now…it was utterly bizarre. People had been trying for years (very discretely of course) to get rid of the damn Mark, often with disastrous results, and then this man, this total stranger, Carrow's "Lord" came out of nowhere and did the impossible. It was all rather bewildering.

Probably best not to think about it too hard. He might have the weekend to twist himself into mental knots of these things, but on Monday morning he was going to be brought back to reality rather abruptly; first year Hufflepuffs and Slytherins, he sneered to himself. Now who had thought that was a good idea? Particularly now they were all busily making friends, his House suddenly realising the advantages of friends who prized tenacity and hard work; if he ever caught them "experimenting" at the back of the classroom again…

He snatched up the Daily Prophet from where the blasted post owl had dumped it, glaring at the advertising banner that flashed obnoxiously at the bottom of the page…

... _Mr Squeezie's stupendous patented baldness preventer…_

How stupid did they think he was?

… _so your follicles never run dry…_

Ha, as if that was ever likely to happen. With a derisive snort, he flipped the paper over for the main headline…

" _DISASTER AT DURMSTRANG!"_

He frowned; what had Karkaroff got himself involved in now? It wasn't as if there were any Death Eaters to hunt him down and kill him anymore, and as for Carrow, he suspected the large man…monster wasn't bothering with this last remaining remnant on the grounds he wasn't worth the time…or maybe he was saving Igor for a rainy day when he needed some entertainment or something. Who knew what went through Carrow's mind?

"… _scenes of devastation and chaos…"_

"… _many students missing, suspected dead…"_

"… _Norwegian Ministry appealed to the ICW for International aid…"_

Snape eyebrows rose further and further as he read. "So much for the impenetrable fortress of Durmstrang," he muttered. Karkaroff had spent so much time last year boasting about the security of his school bloody school, no doubt he was currently fuming and trying to blame the failure on everyone around him.

"… _was able to interview one of the few survivors, who despite her numerous injuries was willing to answer my questions…"_

So who had written this? Oh…Rita Skeeter, so surprisingly this was probably actually legit then…

"… _according to survivors, Ms Schwarzkopf had sustained her injuries while assisting a group of younger students in their escape from the school…_

"… _terrible creatures, twisted and distorted things that began stalking the Halls shortly after breakfast, preying on students as they made their way to the first classes of the day. The alarm was quickly raised…"_

Numerous creatures…twisted and distorted…a nasty feeling began building in the pit of his stomach _,_ a niggling sense of familiarity, a taste of bile at the back of his throat.

"… _reinforcements arrived from the ICW to assist the beleaguered members of the Norwegian Magisk Politi. Senior Under-Secretary to the Minister of Magic Allesandor Carrow…"_

So that's why the Giant Brute hadn't come and visited him in the Hospital Wing, too busily having fun prancing around Norway, slaughtering nameless creatures…

"… _fully armed, entered the fortress where none were able to follow due to the horrors within…"_

Except for Ms Skeeter of course, Snape glared suspiciously at the paper. She always seemed to manage to get first-hand accounts of these things no matter how dangerous, almost as if she'd actually experienced them herself…

"… _using his muggle-style weapon (called a rotator cannon), he began clearing the corridors of the school of the terrible creatures lurking within…"_

He might be wrong about this, having had minimal contact with the muggle world over the last ten or so years, but weren't rotator cannons something more normally seen slung off the underneath of military helicopters? Snape shook his head in exasperation; he had a nasty feeling that the results of such a weapon at relatively close quarters probably closely resembled that of the Aqua Expello curse when used on muggles, which had been generally regarded in Death Eater circles as fun but messy...

"… _Mr Carrow confidently swept a swathe of destruction through the oncoming…"_

Snape just bet he did…

"… _many of whom were curiously enough wearing scraps of red fabric which one can only conclude were the remains of the Durmstrang uniform…"_

What? Snape frantically scanned the page hoping for more clarification of this increasingly disturbing detail…

"… _the library, where several members of staff had managed to barricade the entrance, saving the lives of all those inside. This small group of staff and students were on the verge of being overrun, exhausted and injured as they were, until Mr Carrow came to their rescue, slaughtering their attackers…_

Who until a few hours previously had most likely been students, a nasty part of his mind supplied, terrified, desperate to escape students…

"… _with regards to events leading up to the mysterious attack. According to several survivors Headmaster Igor Karkaroff hadn't been seen in public in nearly a month, having cloistered himself in his quarters, refusing to leave even for meals. On the morning of the attack, several members of the staff had actually been planning to break into the Headmaster's private quarters in order to see if he needed the attentions of a healer, such was the concerning nature of his behaviour. None of them were among the survivors…"_

Oh. Oh, Merlin. His hands began to tremble.

"… _terrifying monster so much larger than the others that oozed through the main corridors, the tusk like horns on its back scraping along the ceiling. Mr Carrow met this vile creature near the main staircase and did battle with it, with sword and staff…"_

He suppressed a bubble of hysterical laughter that threatened to overwhelm him; Rita had definitely found her way into Durmstrang somehow.

"… _set upon by Mr Carrow. The ferocious battle lasted over twenty minutes and resulted in the collapse of part of the main staircase and a huge gaping hole opening up in the side of the main building…"_

Merlin's saggy ball-sack, the bloody Dark Mark; while he'd been attacking his with ointments and potions and anything else he could think of, Karkaroff had been left to fend for himself, not having a natural aptitude for anything that would have helped him much. This was one situation the slimy man hadn't been able to oil his way out of, and then he'd taken the rest of his school with him too. The stupid arrogant idiot…and what had _he_ done?

At best he'd managed to keep it at bay, at worst all he'd done was delay the inevitable by a matter of weeks, maybe days, the inevitable end when he would have been overcome by whatever it was…irrevocably changed, distorted and twisted until he lost all sense of self…and then…and then…

…and then he would have found a way out of his rooms, no matter how well he'd sealed them off…and then the slaughter would have begun…if Carrow hadn't been there…

His heart stopped, the paper flying from his hand as his knees knocked painfully with the coffee table the forgotten cup of coffee falling over with a clatter drenching a pile of paperbacks he'd been meaning to get round to reading for the last six months.

"Severus," the Headmaster said his voice aching with concern. Snape looked up from where he was hunched up painfully over his knees half-expecting to find his living room door hanging off the hinges. No, it appeared to still be firmly attached. He gave the Headmaster a nasty glare, noting with irritation the newspaper clutched in the older man's hand.

"Severus?" To Snape's acute annoyance Dumbledore hurried forward, radiating concern.

"Don't you know how to bloody knock?" Severus said through gritted teeth, "Merlin! I swear I've cracked my knee-caps."

"I am so sorry, Severus," Dumbledore said as he came round the sofa, "I saw the paper, and…and I must admit I was rather concerned."

Snape waved him off. "Yes, yes," he hissed as he rubbed his abused knees, "I'm as well as can be expected all things considered, but," he gestured at the now coffee stained paper with a trembling hand, "that could have been Hogwarts…and me…that could have been _our_ students, and the only reason it's not, is because of Carrow."

Dumbledore winced. "Yes…" he sighed, looking every inch his age, "Alessandor does have this talent for spotting the unlooked for disaster and dealing with them severely before they can really turn nasty…which is rather handy really, and a bitter pill to swallow."

"What do you mean?" Snape stared at him suspiciously.

The Headmaster almost looked embarrassed. "Well, he's so…it would be so easy to _dislike_ the man, but then he does something like this, this act of monstrous violence, but if he hadn't, then the consequences…and, well…" he shrugged helplessly.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"He's not directly associated with the, erm, Dark Lady," Percy explained as Timothy cleaned up from his morning practice, "it's more like he's been hired to do various tasks."

"She's sub-contracting her dirty work," Timothy frowned thoughtfully as he towelled himself down. He had spent much of the morning working on his hand-to-hand combat and sword technique, and it had been rough, deliberately so. It wouldn't do to get out of shape while Carrow and the vampires weren't around. It would only make their return all the more painful and humiliating.

And talking of painful and humiliating…down below in the duelling pit Wulfric and Chuddy were attempting to improve Bradely's hand to hand combat skills. A thankless task if ever there was one. The lad could practically sing in Morse code and as to what his field maintenance skills for his radio packwere like, well…but a martial artist he wasn't.

He glanced over to where the floating seating was currently parked around a low table of snacks and coffee. It had seemed like such a bright idea, invite all the various people over he needed to liaise with on a daily basis and then he could get everything done all at once and save time, which was why Maria Curtis and Clarissa Slyte were now deep in conversation with the lady, one Naomi Keller, from Carrow's newest venture, British Eagle Airlines, their aides and assistants milling around and gossiping.

He had a feeling he was going to deeply regret this at some point.

"Sub-contracting…that's rather muggle isn't it," Percy said, obviously not liking the connotations.

Timothy hummed in agreement as he grabbed his over-robe. It was starting to look a little disreputable, a bit faded and threadbare. He desperately needed some new non-Carrow clothes, but when did he have the time?

"There's another curious thing as well," Percy carried on, "other than his mum, Vera, doing all his accounts, that is. She did a really good job too, very thorough, made things much easier for us."

"Family business, huh?" Timothy smirked.

"Indeed," Percy agreed as he pushed his glasses back up his nose. Much to Timothy's intense jealousy, Percy had discovered Marks & Spencer's and was currently wearing an incredibly boring navy blue jumper.

"We know, of course, about the experiments on humans," Percy said, giving him a sharp glance, before looking around carefully to make sure Hecate the newest addition to Timothy's team wasn't standing too close. "Well…they were on _her_ orders."

"Right," Timothy said wondering where this was going.

"They seem to be part of research into human transformations in general, and the Animagi transformation specifically. One of the victims who didn't survive was actually a registered animagus, and they managed to get him stuck between forms…and alter it at will. The notes are particularly…" Percy grimaced in disgust.

"Quite."

Percy gave him a tight smile. "There's a whole load of potions research related to it as well, but it's Mastery level at least, quite beyond me. I was wondering…maybe Professor Snape?"

Timothy considered it a moment. The poor man was currently suffering through nine months of Carrow, not to mention his usual class load. To burden him further…it was potentially rather cruel. "Maybe later," he conceded, "or we could…" _get someone from R &D to have a look_ he was about to say, but on second thoughts, they'd probably try some of it out and then there'd be a humungous mess. And Maria Curtis would finger him as the culprit, because those idiots, for all they were hyper intelligent could never keep their mouths shut, and then he'd have to deal with weeks of sarcastic remarks and nasty glares. As if he was personally responsible for the R&D department having the self preservations skills of a three year old.

Percy gave a small unhappy frown, but soldiered on. "There's some other potions related research too, but none of us can make head or tail of it…and then there's this." He rifled through the folder he seemed to permanently carry around with him nowadays. Pulling out a piece of paper, he handed it over.

"Vera kept very tight records," he explained as Timothy examined the list. "These are all, apparently, suppliers for some of the more hard-to-find ingredients they needed, as well as various objects…materials…I thought you'd find it interesting."

"I don't suppose she made note of the Dark Lady's contact details?" Timothy asked hopefully as he glanced over the list.

Percy shook his head.

"Shame, that would have made life considerably easier…the Aurors busted the Pointless Alley gang last week," Timothy pointed out, "and this one…I'm certain he's been murdered. Did you get dates of transaction…contact with these? Who's the most recent?"

"Oh erm…yes," Percy began scrabbling through his folder looking a little flustered, "yes, the Fox Lady is the most recent contact for erm, _imports_ , according to Vera's records. But if you want more _human_ remains then they'd been getting them from Annie "the blue hag" Haggis."

"Who lurks in the more touristy part of Knockturn," Timothy shook his head with a snort of laughter, "she's unbelievable she is, hiding in plain sight among all the fakers and confidence tricksters out to rip-off the wealthy looking for a little adventure. Last time I saw her she was hanging around outside Borgin & Berks selling "human" ears. So looks like our next step, then…"

"Are you going to join us, Timothy?" Curtis called across the training hall. "We'd really appreciate your input on a little problem."

Timothy exchanged looks with Percy. "Good luck, sir," his secretary said, giving him a small cheeky grin.

oOo

"…struggling with the advertising campaign. The people we hired to do it produced something very lack-lustre and unimaginative," the new lady, Naomi Keller, from British Eagle Airlines, explained to her sympathetic audience. "It looked more like it was aimed at daytime television, not likely to attract the young business crowd we were after at all."

"Well, of course not," Maria Curtis nodded understandingly.

"So I explained the situation to Mr Carrow," Keller took a sip of her coffee, "he was very sympathetic and helpful, bit of a frustrated artist that one," she smiled knowingly, "and so he insisted we should do it in-house, with him designing it all himself."

Timothy nearly failed to hide the groan of despair; he had a nasty suspicion how this was going to end.

"So, yes…we had the initial viewing of the television pieces just yesterday and erm…" she grimaced, "they're beautifully done…and eye-catching, let's put it like that."

"How much gore?" Timothy asked.

Keller gave him a funny look. "None. I can assure you they're perfectly suitable for family viewing. I made it very clear to Mr Carrow what we needed and he promised he'd stick to the brief, and he _has_ …in a way…"

"Right," Timothy said slowly, "it's just we're rather experienced with Mr Carrow's ideas of appropriate."

"We've going ahead with them," Keller carried on looking quite determined, "it's not like the other stuff was useable."

"When you say safe for family viewing," Curtis said, leaning forward and radiating sympathy, "did you mean…"

"Healer!" Juno's panicked bellow cut through the conversation. Rushing to the balustrade that surrounded the duelling pit, they peered over to find Juno and Athena crouched down beside a semi-conscious Hecate, both obviously extremely worried.

"What have you idiots done _now_?" Healer Slaughter roared as he emerged from his office like some sort of avenging angel. Storming across the training mats, he launched himself down the steps into the duelling pit, his shoulder bag of potions and other medical paraphernalia bouncing on his hip.

"Honestly, how none of you have managed to kill yourselves I've no idea," he grumbled as he strode across the sand to the downed day-vampire.

"What happened?" the healer snapped as he began casting diagnostic charms on Hecate's prone form.

Juno and Athena exchanged worried looks as everyone began gathering round to take in this not unusual spectacle. "We were just starting another round of grappling when she started complaining that she felt whoozy, so we decided to finish off and start on some lighter hand-to-hand techniques when she started staggering," Juno shrugged helplessly.

Athena nodded. "I almost didn't catch Hecate in time, her arms and legs were twitching and everything. Really strange, especially since I thought we'd been taking it easy on the new girl…ease her in to things, considering what she's been through physically. Not that that really matters for vampires; I wasn't aware they could get unfit like that."

"Nor me," Juno agreed.

"Right," Healer Slaughter said as he finished his run of tests charms with a frustrated growl, "so neither of you idiots actually managed to punch in her the head then?"

"Vampire, remember," Athena said, obviously less than impressed with the Healer's attitude, but Slaughter wasn't taking any notice. "That's strange," he muttered, "I wonder…" he began rooting around in his bag, pulling out a lance and some clearly muggle items. The lance failed to make an impression on Hecate's finger. "Bloody vampires," Healer Slaughter muttered, "right." Grabbing Hecate's hand, he jabbed her finger into one of her fangs, causing her to yelp in protest as a bead of blood appeared. Grabbing the muggle style plastic tub, he pulled out a narrow strip of what appeared to be paper, dabbing it against the injury before it had a chance to heal.

"What are you doing?" Percy dared to ask as Healer Slaughter slotted the paper slip into a hand-held device sitting back on his heels to wait. "Doing my bloody job," the Healer growled. "Ah," he almost grinned as the small machine beeped, "no wonder…that explains it. Who's eaten recently?"

"What explains what?" Timothy asked suspiciously.

"She's got seriously low blood sugar, you fool," Healer Slaughter snapped, "and you won't do as a blood donor either, considering your ridiculous dietary habits."

"Low blood sugar," Timothy muttered in puzzlement, ignoring Wulfric's muffled sniggers.

"Right, _you_ ," Healer Slaughter pointed at one of the aides who went pale and began backing away nervously. "You'll do. I saw you stuffing your face with donuts earlier."

"What? But, but…" the aide stuttered, trying to resist his collegues' attempts at shoving him forward.

"I bet your blood sugar's sky high at the moment," Healer Slaughter gave him a nasty grin, "that's just what this young lady needs at the moment. Give me your wrist."

"What?" the aide gasped, now utterly bewildered.

Healer Slaughter grabbed his arm, yanking him forward. "She needs to feed, you fool," he snapped, slashing the aide's wrist and shoving the oozing mess under Hecate's nose despite the man's protests. The reaction was immediate, as Hecate lunged forward, latching onto the wrist before the aide could do little more than squeak in surprise.

"Do we prise her off before she kills him?" Juno wondered aloud as Hecate messily drank from the man, blood and saliva dripping down her chin.

"About…now," Healer Slaughter said grabbing the aide's arm, "try and force her jaw open," he snapped.

"Easy for you to say," Juno snarled, as she tried to force her thumbs into the hinges of the day-vampire's jaw.

The aide screamed as his arm was torn away from Hecate's fangs leaving the day-vampire hissing angrily as the source of her sustenance disappeared.

"Hecate, _Hecate!_ " Athena snarled as she snapped her fingers in front of the angry vampire's face.

"Wha…what happened?" Hecate asked slowly, as she looked around at the gathered people in bewilderment.

Healer Slaughter snorted with laughter as he saw to the aide's arm. "There you go," he said, "take this," he shoved a vial of blood replenisher into the stuttering man's hands, "you can go and finish off the rest of the donuts now. As for you…" he turned to Hecate with a growl.

"Hmmm…I need to do more tests. Obviously, what those idiots did to you had unforeseen ramifications for your continuing good health. and I think I know…"

"WE DID IT!" Franklin bellowed as he and Senior Arithmancer Lettuce Strange charged into the training hall, both practically dancing and jumping on the spot.

"WE DID IT! THE LUNA BASE IS OFICIALLY UP AND RUNNING!" Franklin whooped as he turned to Strange and grabbing her whirled her round in a haphazard waltz, the Arithmancer laughing all the while.

"Luna based radio telescope, here we come," she squealed excitedly as they came to a staggering halt.

"Oh…erm…" They looked around at the silent training hall and their staring audience. "Yes, well," Franklin shifted awkwardly as Strange primly readjusted the fall of her robes. "Well…I've got a recording of the first official transmission confirming completion of the base, if anyone's interested." He vaguely waved a data-slate around.

"Erm…did we miss something?" Strange asked.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"This is your fault," Sirius hissed at Remus, who flatly ignored him, "what were you thinking? With him involved, it's bound to be dangerous, and on _Halloween_ too. I could be in the Great Hall right now stuffing my face with chocolate."

Remus huffed. "And you were telling me only a few days ago that you were absolutely bored rigid." He gave Sirius a sarcastic look over his shoulder.

"Well…yeah, but not like _this_." Sirius froze as his darling little god-son turned to stare at him. "Fine, everything's fine," he muttered as he ducked behind Remus. "When's this thing going to start anyway?" he muttered, looking around the dungeon chamber they were currently in.

It would have been quite a decent size if a couple of dozen nervous teenagers and a gaggle of the teaching staff weren't currently camped out in it, waiting for the starting signal for the very first round of the tournament. Not to mention Carrow, looming in the middle of the room like the veritable elephant in the room that everybody tiptoes around.

One of Carrow's disgusting flying toys darted down, chirping and waving its segmented bronze tentacles. It looked like a cat skull to Sirius, engraved and gold inlaid runes etched into its cranium, its eye sockets filled with a soft blue glow, something faceted and lens like slung underneath its upper jaw.

"Shove off," he growled as he swatted at the yellowing bone thing. Waving its tentacles indignantly, it burbled angrily to itself as it swooped back to join its friends in their strange dance around the ceiling.

"Everybody in your teams. Take your places," Carrow announced, his voice far too large for such an enclosed space.

There was a mad scramble for a moment, and Sirius found himself shunted to one side along with Remus and some the other volunteers. Flitwick particularly looked as if he was beginning to regret getting involved.

"And now…" he turned to a yellowing horse skull that had come down to float in the middle of the room. Gilded filigree doors flipped open on its top, light flooding out, flickering and buzzing until it resolved into a large than life image of Snape's face, a vague impression of the Halloween festivities just visible behind him.

Sirius wrinkled his nose in disgust at the disturbing close-up of the man's overly large nose which appeared grossly magnified. You could even see the little hairs sprouting from his nostrils and his enlarged pores…and then Snape smiled.

" _Greetings, contestants, and welcome to my dungeon,"_ Snape's voice echoed round the dungeon chamber adding to its menace. _"Your task, if you dare, is to find an item that will help you in your quest, a segment of a map. It sounds simple doesn't it?"_ His evil smile broadened, _"except there are only four of these maps."_

" _And within these dungeons lurk many dangers you must overcome or avoid if you are to succeed in your quest."_ He chuckled nastily. _"Find the map without losing any of your teams to injury or even…death, announce victory to finish your quest. Good hunting…and good luck!"_

"Right," Carrow rumbled, "you are now informed of your quest. Find a segment of map. Each one is a port-key that will send you to the Great Hall. Activation word is Victory. Another thing for you all to be aware of," he gestured towards the servo-skulls, "each team will be followed by one of my creations which will enable your supporters in the Great Hall to follow your journey."

Oh. Sirius gave the servo-skull thingies that came and hovered over the nervous groups of students a new look of appreciation. So the disgusting things were actually here for a reason, like stalking each team through whatever nastiness Snape and Mad-Eye and Carrow had managed to devise between them, and then (if he was guessing this correctly), the resulting images would be shown on the series of large screens that had been put up in the Great Hall in among all the floating pumpkins and flying bats and stuff, where the saner members of the school (and Snape) had gathered to watch.

"Team Desperado, on your marks…go," Carrow intoned, as if he were ordering them into battle. The students turned to eye the dark doorway behind them nervously. Pulling out their wands, casting lumos charms, they hesitantly stepped through, disappearing one by one, a servo-skull swooping after them.

The rest of the students had now fallen into a terrified silence. Sirius could practically smell their fear, which Remus (he gave the werewolf a sideways glance) probably could smell.

In fact now he thought of it, it might almost be as bad as that time in fourth year he and James had had a bet to see who could wear the same pair of socks the longest. He'd have won too if McGonagall hadn't made him hand them over to the house-elves. Mind you, since she'd done it during breakfast, it almost counted as a prank on the entire school. Certainly the nearest of his darling peers had looked as if they wanted to be very, _very_ sick.

A sharp elbow caught him in the ribs. "What was that for?" he grumbled, rubbing his no-doubt bruised ribs.

"Pay attention," Remus hissed.

"Honestly, you've got so boring and old," Sirius sneered. Stooping down, he scooped up a small chunk of rock that had come from who knew where. A little bit of quick wand work later and he had a luminous orange hat shaped like a pumpkin that flashed off and on and shouted " _happy Halloween"_ in a high squeaky voice, every so often breaking into maniacal cackles.

Remus put a hand over his eyes. "Oh for Merlin's sake," he sighed.

Sniggering at his friend's discomfort, Sirius turned back to the tournament just as Carrow came to a team of six who all appeared to be Hufflepuffs considering all the black and yellow.

"Team Badger's Glory…go!" Carrow barked causing the Hufflepuffs to practically fall over one another as they sprinted for the dark opening behind them, their designated servo-skull bobbing dutifully after them.

"Team Malcom," Carrow turned now to a lone youth who couldn't have been more than fifteen. Thin and nervous with glasses, he'd laden himself down with a rucksack stuffed with who knew what, various bits and pieces of equipment strapped to the outside. Sirius quirked an eyebrow; the lad had actually brought a pan with him. He could always stop and have a hot snack, something nice like bacon…or sausages…

Hmmm….sausages…he licked his lips at the mouth watering thought.

Remus jabbed him in the ribs with his overly pointy elbow, again pointedly ignoring Sirius's indignant glare.

"Team…Ave Imperator…go!"

What…did Carrow actually almost _grin_ then? Yep, definite show of amusement there…oh, of course, the Defence Club, some of them. Bunch of crazy nutters dressed in sludge colours and actually carrying weapons as part of their gear. Oh great.

"What do they think they're going to meet in there?" he hissed at Remus as he watched team "Ave Imperator" cautiously approach their designated entrance falling into a pre-determined pattern he vaguely remembered from his Auror days. Was that Goyle's lad taking point? And one of the Weasley's kids close behind him? The Defence Club certainly made for strange bed fellows.

Not that he was complaining; the school seemed so much more a much more relaxed and happy place than he remembered it. Several more teams including another bunch from the DC, _Win-some Warriors_ or something, (where had that bear got a gun from?) went and then finally…

"Team Flobberworms are Fantastic…go!"

Sirius sniggered quietly to himself. A ragged cheer went up from the group who were mainly wearing Quidditch kit, both Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. Strange mixture there. Looking cheerful and severely under-equipped, they headed for their entrance, wands drawn as they chattered nervously amongst themselves.

Sirius gave a pained smile as Carrow now turned to the adult volunteers. "Ladies and gentlemen, are you all equipped?"

There was a chorus of reluctant affirmatives as Sirius rattled the string of portkeys that hung around his neck, small temporary things that looked rather like steel washers and, Sirius understood, would dump the unfortunate victim into the tender mercies of Madam Pomfrey in the Hospital Wing.

Carrow pointedly ignored him. "Time for us to take our places," he rumbled.

oOo

"How's the mapping charm going," Hermione asked from her place watching their backs, her hair sticking out in odd little tufts from under the scrim net she was using as a bandanna.

"Hmm," Luna poked the charmed parchment with her wand, "it's working so far…I wonder what that is…"

Wobbling black lines spread out from their initial entrance point mapping out the passages, tunnels and abandoned rooms they had explored so far, the dead ends, the passage with the series of locked rooms which had turned out to contain nothing but dust, except for one which had a perfectly circular sink-hole taking up most of its floor space.

They'd made an impromptu torch and tossed it in, in the hope of finding its bottom, only to have it disappear out of sight. They'd thrown some rocks on after that but after waiting five minutes or so they still hadn't heard any sign they'd hit the bottom.

After that Greg had pointed out they were wasting time and so they had left, relocking the door behind them.

"And what if those idiot Gryffindors find it," Hermione had said, "they'd probably jump in."

"But you're a Gryffindor," Greg had pointed out.

"I'm Defence Club, it's more important," Hermione had glared.

She sort of had a point too; he'd think about it more deeply later he had decided, when he wasn't stalking along dark mouldy corridors where just about anything could leap out at them.

"It looks like a room or something intersecting with this corridor," Greg said, "but there's nothing there." He looked round the dank and dark passage they were currently in.

"Maybe," Hermione said slowly, "it's above…or maybe below us."

"Oh," Greg began examining the damp stonework more carefully, "a trap maybe," he suggested.

Hermione pushed her Cadia round more onto her back, pulling out her wand. "Okay, two of you guard. Greg, you and me, check for everything you can think of."

"Right," Greg shuffled forward wand at the ready and began casting spell after spell at the floor before them. Ron watched in fascination as parts of the stonework shimmered and glowed momentarily.

"There's definitely something there," Greg muttered, "but what…"

"I think…I think it might be below…" Hermione began.

"GET OUT OF THE WAY YOU FREAKS!" Zacharias Smith snarled from behind them.

Ron looked behind him to see a group of six in mud splattered Quidditch team robes, all of them glaring nastily at the Defence Club members.

"Are you going to get out of the way or what," McLaggan snarled as he shouldered past rudely.

"Fine," Hermione gave them a nasty smirk, "we'll let you past."

The brightly clad group shoved past in the narrow passage, sniggering and muttering among themselves.

"Thanks," McLaggan shouted over his shoulder, "you bunch of sad loos…aaarrGGHHHHH!"

The floor in front of the DC members had abruptly disappeared leaving a dark pit nearly fifteen feet across and even more wide as it swallowed up the passage, the bottom filled with water if the splashing and screaming was anything to go by.

A soft "lumos" from Hermione revealed the other team desperately splashing and floundering in the water as they tried to get to safety. Above them, their servo-skull hovered obediently recording their suffering.

"Help us!" Smith screamed up at them spitting and coughing as he abruptly swallowed water, struggling as he was against the sodden weight of his Quidditch robes.

"Bugger that," Greg muttered.

"There….there's something in here with us," Bell shouted through chattering teeth as she clung to the sheer stone wall of the pit.

Ron pulled his Cadia up to the ready. Some sort of creature? It could be almost anything really since he knew for a fact that Uncle Sev had got _Hagrid_ to help him with this. Maybe he could bag himself a giant squid and persuade Mum to have it mounted above the living room fireplace; it wasn't quite a Nundu head, but still…it would look pretty cool.

Something large moved in the dark waters below, something long…Ron took aim and fired a few shots, raising small plumes of water and screams from the idiots below. The water stilled a moment, the silence of the dungeons only disturbed by broken sobbing.

The creature erupted out of the water, screaming in rage as it launched itself up the side of the pit, baring its razor sharp teeth. Ron and Hermione both opened fire on the sea serpent, sending a hail of bullets into its writhing form, human screams joining the sea creature's rage as ricochets pinged around the pit showering the unfortunate team below with shards of stone.

The serpent's movements became ever more sluggish, and with a last agonised wail, it slumped and drifted below the surface of the water.

"Cool," Greg exclaimed.

"You bunch of _bloody fucking_ nut-cases," Smith screamed from where he clung to the pit wall desperately trying to keep away from the spreading pool of blood from the sea serpent's corpse which was now bobbing on the surface. A gash on his forehead was oozing blood down his face. "What the _fuck_ were you thinking?"

"Oh, I don't know," Ron muttered sarcastically, "just saving your life."

Hermione snorted with laughter.

They looked round at the sound of running footsteps to find Professor Flitwick sprinting towards them, looking as harassed and unhappy as they'd ever seen him.

"They're, umm…in there," Greg pointed out helpfully.

"Thank-you Mr Goyle," Flitwick said distractedly as he grabbed his portkeys, "you and your team carry on, I'll deal with this lot…really, this is worse than the Tri-Wizard tournament."

oOo

The distant chattering of gun-fire finally stopped, plunging them back into silence. Somewhere nearby water dripped from the ceiling a puddle on the floor rippling gently.

"Shall we go and see what that was about?" Remus asked reluctantly.

"Nah," Sirius grimaced, "I'm sure someone else is closer."

"They'll have it in hand," he added more for his than Remus's benefit, "…I'm sure they will…" he fiddled nervously with his pumpkin hat which was now flashing rather erratically its voice having wound down to an eerie bass, "….hhhhaaaaappppyyyy…hhhhhaaaallllllooooowweeeeennn…."

"We didn't hear any screams," he pointed out hopefully.

"Fine," Remus huffed, "let's get going."

Sirius sighed in relief as the werewolf led the way, past the leak in the ceiling which suggested that they were probably far too close to the lake for comfort and into a small cavern which was populated by large luminous fungi that climbed the walls in tiers, their brackets softly glowing blue, green and even purple.

A high pitched whine in the air came from hundreds of insects busily sipping up the sticky honey dew that dappled the tops of the bracket fungi. Above in the crevices of the cavern roof they had made nests, pale things that hung down like papery stalactites.

They looked like wasps, Sirius gave a small group on the nearest fungi a careful examination, magically mutated wasps who had managed to make their home in this erm…what did the muggles call it? An enclosed ecosystem…see, he grinned to himself, all that reading was paying off, not to mention he got to sneak blatantly muggle books into the house past old Mumsie-darling who couldn't do a single thing about it.

Right, so if there were insects feeding off the fungi and no doubt fertilizing them, then something must prey on the insects. Holding the glowing tip of his wand up he began looking around, what would it be? Some sort of small rodent, mutant mice? Strange and terrible spiders?

A small pale lizard scampered across the rocks, disappearing into a crack. Several leggy spiders skittered across the fungi, tiny wasps hurriedly getting out of their way. Rustling near his feet attracted his attention, and Sirius looked down to find a glossy white centipede marching across the toes of his boots.

Something small swooped past his head, skidding just above a bracket of fungi…and another one…there were loads of them everywhere, practically silent in the darkness…and above, he peered into the gloom, in among the cracks and crevices and wasps' nests, little eyes gleamed momentarily in the soft light from his wand. A nasty thought occurred to him; yep, underneath where they seemed particularly concentrated there were deep drifts of poo, bat poo, which was feeding the fungi. It was like the cycle of life, down here everything feeding and sustaining each other… and if the muggles were right with their science, there'd be even all sorts of creatures hanging around in the pools of water on the cavern floor and the slime that drooled down its walls…

"Come _on,_ Padfoot," Remus called from the other side of the cavern, looking exasperated.

"But it's amazing, Mooney," Sirius grinned, "look…" he spun on the spot, "all of this life and none of it needs sunlight, just each other."

Remus sighed with an indulgent smile. "You've been reading too many muggle books again, haven't you? Honestly."

Sirius shrugged. Was it possible to read too many muggle books? He wasn't sure it was.

Through the rough entrance to the next section of the dungeons, more of an extra-wide crack in the rock face that reached up into the darkness above them, was an even larger cavern full of even stranger sights. A stream ran through this one fed by a waterfall at the far end that fell into a small pool.

The fungi were more varies here, puffballs and toadstools, with tall deep caps as well as wide shallow ones, brackets smothering the cracks and crevices of the walls particularly near the waterfall, and there was also…he knelt down for a closer look. Wow, this one looked like coral, branched and knobbly. It was even a vibrant red.

Nearby, jarringly alien, was a chest, a mouldy looking thing its iron straps orange with rust. Somebody had obviously been this way as the lid was ajar, the contents having been pilfered.

He had a cautious peek inside; looked pretty cleared out apart from a vial of…he squatted at Snape's spidery handwriting, a colour changing elixir. That was a pranking potion and not the best either, since it was really easy to detect.

"Sirius, really," Remus seemed almost amused, "we'll have plenty of time to enjoy the scenery later when this is all over with you know."

"We could come back…" Sirius looked up in surprise.

"If you want," Remus turned on the spot as he admired the cavern. "You have to admit it is rather beautiful down here. Not quite a picnic spot I think, but er…oh! Look over there," he pointed, "aren't those giant flesh eating slugs?"

A wet explosion the other side of the stream ripped through the peace and tranquillity, sending fungal fruiting bodies up into the air. Screams and yells of horror died down into broken sobbing.

"Well, _bugger_ ," Sirius growled, "it was just too good to last." He sprinted towards the disaster, hurdling the stream and diving in among the rocks and toadstools on the other side.

In a small circular clearing the Hufflepuffs, Badger's Glory, if he remembered rightly lay thoroughly gooped up and stuck to the scenery with green slime which had obviously something to do with the very clean looking stone casket sitting in the middle of the chaos.

"No, no, _no_ ," one of the Badgers yelled as he caught sight of Sirius reaching for his portkeys. "Please, sir! Please don't, we can get out of this. I know we can. Please, sir."

"Okay, okay kid," Sirius backed away, "you've got five minutes, but if you don't all get clear I'm sending you off to Madam Pomfrey. Deal?"

"Deal!" the Badger yelled, frantically struggling in the green group as he tried to get to his wand still clutched in his right hand. Sirius winced at the contortions the lad was making as he finally managed to manoeuvre it into his mouth gripping it between his teeth.

"You've got two minutes left," Sirius smiled helpfully.

Looking increasingly frantic the Badger clumsily wagged his wand muttering something through his clenched teeth. The results were…Sirius winced. Well okay, for a handless incoherent casting he'd done quite well. He'd certainly succeeded in freeing his right arm, pity he'd disintegrated his robe sleeve and taken some of his skin while he was about it. Steeling himself, sweat beginning to trickle down his forehead the Badger steeled himself to repeat the crude charm, face set in steely determination.

"Please, don't," Sirius asked, "if you manage to vanish your arm, Madam Pomfrey will have my head on a stake."

oOo

"Woah! Well that isn't creepy at all," Greg glared at their possible prize sarcastically. "Who do you think was responsible for _that_? Professor Snape or Professor Moody…maybe even Professor Carrow?"

Ron gave the snarling statue of a goat horned man with bat wings a critical look. The creepy thing was even stood on a pile of screaming people, trampling them under its hooves. In its left hand it held a staff, while its right hand made a strange two fingered sign.

"Nah, I can't really see Professor Carrow going with something like that," Ron said, "I can just see him screaming HERESY, PURGE and pulling out his gun at the sight of it. No, I think Uncle Sev did this. It's his sense of humour all over. See those little people it's crushing under its hooves," he pointed out, "I'm certain one of them looks like that bloke in Hufflepuff, second year. Uncle Sev's always moaning about because of the number of cauldrons he's managed to blow up or just melt."

"Huh, point," Goyle conceded.

"That's it," Hermione exclaimed triumphantly. Leaning forward she prodded the stone beneath the niche the statue was sitting in, then tapping the stonework seemingly at random along its sides and then around the arched top.

With a sinister cackle of laughter the statue drew to one side revealing a small cavity behind which held a folded piece of parchment.

"Oooh, is that it?" Ron asked trying not to dance with excitement.

Hermione swatted absentmindedly at the servo-skull as it darted down to get a better look. She frowned as she cast a few detection charms, "I'm not sensing anything dangerous. What do you think, Luna?" she asked the younger girl.

Luna broke her contemplation of the ceiling arches, humming tunelessly to herself as she waved her wand in strange jerking motions. "Hmmmm…I think the parchment might be coated with something."

Hermione nodded pulling on her NI gloves. A simple summoning charm had the parchment on the floor. A few moments later the parchment had been unfolded to reveal…

"That's not a map," Ron exclaimed, feeling somehow cheated.

"No shit, Sherlock," Hermione snorted, "it's something though…but what…"

Ron scratched his head. The design of a runic seal did seem oddly familiar. Now where had he seen it before?

"It was on the floor of that room," Luna said, "you know, the one where the ceiling moved down."

The team surpressed groans. It had taken them ages to figure out the safe route across, the grimy spider infested (Ron shuddered at the thought) ceiling getting ever closer as they went until they were crawling on their stomachs pulling themselves forward with their forearms.

Carrow suddenly loomed out of the darkness, eyeing them coolly.

"Sir," Hermione inclined her head politely, Ron copying her. Carrow gave them a sharp nod in return, apparently satisfied with what he saw, disappearing as suddenly as he had appeared.

"Damn," Ron muttered rubbing his chest, "I don't think I'll ever get used to that."

oOo

The narrow fissure in the rock arched above them, its bottom just wide enough to act as a passage. Sirius looked up as he clambered over a small boulder. "Did you hear that?" he asked Remus.

"More bats, it sounds like," the werewolf squinted up into the dark, "surely there must be a way out into the Forbidden Forest or something for them, there's thousands of them. I doubt there's enough food in the caverns to support the size of population."

"Now who's been reading too many muggle books," Sirius sniggered as he ducked his head into what might have been another cavern. It turned out to be barely the size of a cupboard housing nothing but sand, pebbles, a small casket and an undersized skeleton wearing the rotting remains of Hogwarts robes, house undetermined. Shaking his head sadly, Sirius retreated; honestly, Snape's sense of humour was dreadful.

"Someone's coming," Remus pointed out.

Sirius squinted down the stony passage where a bobbing light was approaching. Slowly the light revealed the lone contestant, Malcolm, if he remembered correctly, looking a lot muddier and with a nasty graze on his cheek. The graze had been treated with a bright orange ointment. Obviously it had paid to be that prepared. His servo-skull appeared to have grabbed the back of his rucksack, happy to be pulled along.

"Erm…" Malcolm swallowed nervously as he spotted them, grinding to a halt as he nervously adjusted his rucksack straps, the pan attached to its outside rattling slightly. "Sirs," he ducked his head.

"Going okay, lad," Sirius asked as the young man sidled past rucksack scraping on the rocky wall of the passage.

Malcolm managed a nervous smile and a nod. Sirius couldn't help but notice the pan was a little more dented than it had been. Had the lad used it to defend himself?

They watched Malcolm as he carried on his way coming to a sudden halt beside the crevice Sirius had discovered previously, the servo-skull scrambling over his shoulder for a closer look. When he looked back at them nervously, Sirius gave him a cheerful wave. "Come on Mooney, let's leave him to it."

The natural rocks gave way once again to the dressed stone and arched ceilings of the dungeons proper with their damp walls and occasional puddles underfoot.

"This is depressing," Sirius muttered as he hunched his shoulders against the cold damp air, pulling his hat more firmly down over his ears. With a small pop, the thing reverted back to a rock perched on his head, a cold draft whistling around his unprotected head.

"Well…knickers," Sirius growled as he let the rock fall to the floor.

"I'm impressed it lasted this long to be honest," Remus poked the rock with the toe of his boot, "do you hear that?"

"What?" Sirius strained his ears. In the distance came yells and the clashing of weapons, even some gunfire. Sharing an exasperated look, the two men set off at a jog.

The sounds of combat lead them to a room that looked as if it had come out of one of Carrow's more theatrical paintings, like a cross between a cavern and a Roman temple. Peering round the corner, they jerked back into the shadows as something stalked past.

" _What the hell_ ," Sirius hissed falling silent as Remus frantically hushed him.

They froze in the shadows as something hideous snuffled the air mere feet from them, moving its head back and forth as if indecisive. Eventually, it shambled back into the conflict.

Heaving a sigh of relief, Sirius peered around the corner just in time to witness Bulstrode put an axe through the head of one of the awful monstrosities, caving in brittle old bone and gold filigree with a sickening crunch.

It would never cease to surprise him just the sheer violence the DC were capable of unleashing, easily on a league with some of the worst he'd faced as a young Auror during the first war with Lord Moldy-farts.

One of the smaller ones, Creevey, Crawley…something…ran past screaming in adrenalin fuelled rage something loping along behind him, a frightening monstrous thing, horse skulled, wreathed in a halo of blue fire, with talons that looked as if they could rip through rock with ease.

"Nev!" the kid screamed as he jumped over some fallen stonework.

A blast of white hot heat slammed into the thing with a sizzle-crack, melting its rib cage to a smouldering wreck, and neatly cutting it in half. The two halves crumbled messily to the floor, its arms twitching fitfully for a moment.

The Creepy kid gave an enthusiastic thumbs up to Longbottom who had a disturbingly blood thirsty smirk as he hefted his weird (or even weirder) gun, before jumping back into the fray with a blood curdling whoop of joy.

"They haven't managed to kill each other yet…actually, they look like they're having fun," Sirius turned to Remus, "shall we, erm, leave them to their fun…"

"Yes, let's," Remus backed away from the carnage, "yes…this is…" he gestured, "I…let's just circle back…"

"Right," Sirius nodded.

The cavern looked much the same when they returned, the tension in Sirius's shoulders relaxing at the sound of the waterfall and the flutter of the bats. "Shame we haven't got a snack or something."

Remus gave him a sly smile while rummaging in the pocket of his robes. Pulling out a couple of paper packages he waggled them. Laughing triumphantly Sirius led the way towards the stream looking for somewhere to perch while they ate.

"Hey," he sniffed the air, "I smell bacon."

There near the pool sat Malcolm who had set up a little portable fire and was now busily frying a couple of rashers, the servo skull peering over his shoulder. Obviously this was the local favourite picnic spot, Sirius grinned to himself as he and Remus made themselves comfortable amongst the fungi and rocks.

oOo

A sizzling bolt of energy flew over Ron's head melting a slaggy spot in the wall behind him, molten rock dribbling down the wall momentarily. A few moments later the angry red of a concussive hex flew, past narrowly missing his ear.

"This is getting bloody dangerous, Ripper," he bellowed over the rattle of gunfire as he carefully took aim at a point just over Neville's head. Neville ducked with a yelp, but then popped back up strafing the _Ave Imperator_ team with globs of super-heated plasma.

"Okay, this is getting out of hand," Hermione yelled back. Pointing her wand above her head, she cast a series of white firecrackers that banged and popped above the din in a blinding display. Slowly, the gunfire died down.

"Guys, you okay?" Millie bellowed down the passage they had found themselves trapped in.

"Yeah sure," Hermione yelled back as she ducked her head out from cover, "we're fine, but this is getting dangerous so…if you want to carry this on later in the training course?"

"Sounds good to me," Millie shouted, "I'm holding you to it, Ripper. See you guys later."

The other team, the _Win-some Warriors,_ cleared off back down the passage and through a connecting room.

"Shall we get on then guys?" Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. "Glad that's over. It would have been so annoying to get perforated when the Professor's promised to show us some new neck-lock techniques this week."

A total tragedy that, Ron nodded in agreement. It would be fascinating to know how to snap someone's neck with his bare hands…not that he'd use it, of course, especially anywhere Mum could find out.

The ceiling of the room with the runic seal on the floor had retreated to its proper height when they found it again lurking in the gloom above them.

"Can you remember the route across okay?" Greg asked giving the dark slab of granite a dubious look.

"Sure," Hermione mumbled as she prodded at the paving slabs with her wand.

"Okay, maybe I don't," she admitted five minutes later as they lay on their stomachs trapped beneath the slab, desperately pulling themselves forward to safety in the most uncomfortable bear crawl ever.

"Oh this is _so_ much fun," Ron growled as the Servo-skull skittered into the side of his head "just what I like to do for bloody fun. Yes, boring Sunday afternoon? Oooh, I know, let's get squashed by ten _bloody_ tons of _bloody_ rock!"

"We need to get out of here," Greg looked back desperately at the faint sliver of light that was all that was visible of the doorway.

"Wow, great idea," Ron growled, "I wonder why I hadn't thought that up."

"We should be alright," Luna called back to them sounding unnecessarily cheerful, "I'm pretty certain this is the lowest the ceiling actually drops so we should be absolutely fine, we've got just enough room to do this."

With a moan of pure desperation, Greg let his head clunk to the floor. Ron sympathised with him; of all the stupid, idiotic situations to get in this was almost as bad as spiders used to be…

"Ooooh look," Hermione exclaimed with a rustle of parchment, "some of the runes are highlighted."

"It looks like some sort of opening sequence…yes…" Luna muttered, "if we pour magic into this one…"

With an ominous groan the ceiling lowered another terrifying inch.

"Luna!" Ron and Greg screamed.

"Ooops. Let's just do the others and see what happens," Hermione said.

"No!" Ron tried squashing himself forward in a desperate attempt to stop the possibly life-threatening stupidity.

The heavy slab of granite shimmered for a moment before, to Ron's intense confusion and annoyance, disappearing all together, light now pouring out of the runic seal carved in the floor. As the light peaked, the very centre peeled back like a flower revealing a hidden space below, containing nothing but a simple piece of folded parchment.

"Is that it? All this for _that_?!" Ron snarled, just wanting the whole thing to be over now. Beside him, Greg groaned as he lay on the floor, gasping for breath, staring up at the ceiling.

Taking no chances, Hermione levitated the parchment out of the hole. "We'll soon find out won't we," she said as she opened it up with gloved fingers.

"Is it?" Greg asked from his prone position.

"It is," Hermione said, "quick guys, put a finger on it."

Finally, Ron thought as he rushed forward Greg following in his wake, time for a sit down and some food; he could murder a steak right now.

"Victory," Hermione snapped. The dark dank surroundings of the dungeon disappeared in a swirl of motion as the port-key hooked itself into his navel, yanking him away in a storm of motion. It abruptly stopped, dumping them in the Great Hall just in front of the High Table.

The sudden change had Ron and the others reaching for their weapons as they were assaulted by a barrage of light and sound. Ron blinked in bewilderment, clutching his Cadia like a lifeline.

They were being cheered, everybody was shouting and clapping for them, people milling about, obviously from winning teams still mucky from their adventures, and there was Fred and George- he squinted at the Gryffindor table- dancing a jig, having climbed onto the bench, completely ignoring a furious McGonagall.

They'd got through, they'd made it; a slow grin spread across his face, they'd actually made it through. He turned to Hermione to inform her of this exciting fact, to find her hugging Millie and Luna. Neville the bear crashed into him in a big hairy hug full of slobber and happy growls, Greg laughing beside him for pure joy.

Their celebrations were cut short by a series of loud bangs that had the more senior members of the Defence Club dropping to the floor, their weapons at the ready as they frantically looked round for the source of the attack.

Ron pulled himself to his feet face red as Uncle Sev sniggered at him. To Ron's surprise, the normally I'm-only-wearing-black-until-they-discover-something-darker adopted uncle was actually clad in forest green robes of fine wool. They even had a row of fancy silver buttons down the front. Ron gave him a discrete thumbs-up and received a small smile in return.

"Silence," Uncle Sev bellowed at the already quieting hall, "I will now announce the winning teams…teams…yes, yes I know you're excited. Get back in your groups!" he snarled causing the contestants to scurry laughing into their teams.

"Teams _Ave Imperator_ and _Win-some Warriors_ …"

Ron felt his face heat up even more as the other students let out an enormous sugar fuelled cheer.

"Team _Dungeon Crawlers_ …"

Who were they? Ron leaned round to take in the nervous group standing as far away from the Defence Club as they could. They were a really mixed bunch too; he was certain the tall gangly girl with glasses was one of Ravenclaw's seventh year prefects. She towered over her team-mates, made them look like midgets or something.

"…and last but not least…Team _Malcolm_!"

Seriously?! The lone guy had got through? Huh, shows you should never judge a book by its cover, unless, Ron amended himself, it was an actual book and Ripper was shouting at him to read it or else. That was time to hide.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

It wouldn't be the first time this year he'd been forced to write a letter of explanation (and sometimes apologies) to some indignant pure-blood parent when their darling offspring had written home demanding…Dumbledore peered at the three foot long rant…an AK47. No, he had to agree with Mr and Mrs Greengrass, just this once, that that was an entirely unsuitable thing for young Astoria to be carrying around, though probably not for the same reasons.

Drat that blasted tournament, and he'd thought handing it over to Severus would have guaranteed keeping it both sane and safe. Obviously Carrow was in some way inexplicable way contagious. The screams as those poor youngsters tried to shelter from a hail of gunfire would haunt his dreams for weeks to come. The fact that nobody had been killed or severely injured was nothing short of a miracle.

He shuddered to himself as he dipped his quill in the purple ink he'd especially chosen for the occasion.

… _if such requests should occur again, I highly recommend directing your ire towards the current Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts, Allesandor Darius Carrow, who will be able to address you concerns more fully…_

You never knew, it might go some way to reducing his daily ration of howlers, _and_ provide some cheap entertainment at breakfast too. Always a silver lining, you just had to look carefully for it.

Folding the parchment, he sealed it with a blob of green wax, pressing the school seal firmly into it before it could set. On to the next one…

… _no warning of all the extra costs. We had no idea our son would need all of this extra expensive exercise equipment, and some of it we are at a complete loss of where to buy it from. Until Donald asked for one, we'd never even heard of a Bergen…_

Dumbledore sighed heavily; this looked like yet another prospective member of the Defence Club. One of the stranger results of this tournament, apparently recruitment for the Defence Club was up, but of course now there had been a rash of new members trying to claim their recently acquired interest was actually compulsory, in a bid to get expensive equipment out of their parents.

Best to pop that bubble quickly, and point them towards the second-hand place Miss Granger had been kind enough to give him the details of. Then at least the parents could thrash it out with the enterprising young Donald themselves, probably quite literally.

Silver flashed in front of his eyes and Dumbledore sat back startled, blinking the sunspots from his vision. To his surprise, Minerva's patronus was pacing on his desk, looking quite agitated.

"Albus, you need to come down to the front gates as quickly as possible," Minerva's voice said, threatening doom, " _he's_ done something. Again."

He? He who? Did she mean Carrow? Albus felt his heart sink, of course she meant Carrow. What had the giant menace managed to do now? And the weekend had looked so promising too.

oOo

"What on Earth is going on?" Dumbledore said as he took in the small and extremely curious crowd of students, and even some staff who'd gathered around Hagrid near the main gates.

"Albus, _finally_ ," Minerva strode over, looking about as frazzled as he'd ever seen her. "I don't know what's going on, and really, _muggle lorries!_ What is the world coming to?" She threw her hands up in exasperation.

Muggle lorries? Dumbledore really looked at what lay beyond the gates that Hagrid was so determinedly protecting. Minerva was right; it wasn't one of the really enormous ones he'd occasionally seen but large enough, painted black with the now horribly familiar Aquila Industries logo proudly displayed in yellow on the front.

"Where's Professor Carrow?" he asked as he made his way towards the gates, Minerva following in his wake. "Does anyone know where he is?"

"Isn't it that dreadful shooting club of his at the moment?" Minerva scowled, "It would be such a shame to disrupt it, wouldn't it?"

"Truly a shame, my dear," Dumbledore smiled into his beard.

Minerva's lips actually twitched in amusement. "Frobisher," she barked at the nearest student, "go and find Professor Carrow and ask him to come to the Main Gates, pronto."

"Ah, Professor," the student actually whined and pouted, as he looked back at the excitement unfolding behind him.

" _Now,_ Frobisher," Minerva glared.

"Yes, Professor," the unfortunate Frobisher trailed off towards the Castle, before finally breaking into a sprint.

"Honestly," Minerva hrumffed, "they get cheekier every year."

"I'm ever so sorry about this," an oddly familiar vice called from beside Hagrid, "we're just making a delivery…and an installation for Mr Carrow."

Dumbledore blinked in surprise. Wasn't that…Lettice Strange… _Mistress Arithmancer_ Lettice Strange, he corrected himself. After all, she was no longer the tiny little Ravenclaw with pigtails he remembered blowing up a succession of mice in her first year in Transfiguration. On the positive side, her classmates had become rather good at cleaning charms.

"A delivery," Minerva eyed the lorry suspiciously, "of what? What's he up to?" She folded her arms, obviously expecting the worst.

"Oh, nothing like that," Strange smiled, "we wanted this to be a surprise for Mr Carrow, a present…and it gives us a golden opportunity to test and fine tune our equipment designs. There aren't many environments as highly saturated with magic as Hogwarts. We've been doing our best to replicate the thaum levels present here for our tests, but sometimes it's just better to go out into the field, as it were."

Dumbledore nodded politely, not really sure what she could possibly be referring to. No doubt he would soon find out.

"Ah. Here he is," Strange perked up. Striding past the gawking crowd, she pulled a letter from her robes and presented it to the giant man who was as close to puzzled as Dumbledore had ever seen him.

"Headmaster?"

Dumbledore turned to find Rosmerta standing beside the lorry, looking extremely concerned. "Is everything all right?" She shot the lorry a suspicious look. "Should I call the Aurors?"

Behind her stood a small crowd of Hogsmeade residents who'd followed the muggle vehicles up to the Castle, mainly (Dumbledore suspected) for a really good nosey.

"I'm sure it will be fine," He gave the landlady a reassuring smile, "I do believe this had something to do with the business Mr Carrow runs in his spare time." He looked back at the man in question…who was now smiling, a genuinely happy smile that transformed his face, the likeness with poor James painful to behold. Oh, this wasn't good.

oOo

"… _beep…beep…this vehicle is reversing…beep…beep…beep…this vehicle is reversing…beep…beep…"_

It was rather considerate of it to actually warn people, Dumbledore mused as he watched the small lorry reverse towards the main doors of Hogwarts guided by a young man who looked rather familiar despite his extremely muggle uniform. It did seem rather curious that it didn't shout warnings at passersby when going forwards though. A rather strange over sight; maybe he should point it out to them.

The lorry doors slammed as its occupants climbed out, another vehicle drawing up and disgorging its passengers, Dumbledore watching in fascination as the area in front of Hogwart's main entrance descended into organised chaos.

"Oh my," Dumbledore exclaimed as the back of the lorry opened and a section pivoted down until it was level. Someone scrambled up into the back and began to move something around from all the banging and scraping sounds that began to issue from the vehicle.

"I'd always wondered how muggle lorries worked," he murmured to a very unimpressed looking Minerva, "isn't this exciting."

Minerva gave him a disapproving glare.

"See, even Carrow agrees with me."

Minerva glanced over to where the giant lump stood among the Aquila Ind. staff pouring over a sheaf of papers someone had handed him. He was never the most expressive of people, but right now he was practically vibrating with anticipation, his eyes glinting with something terrifying as he watched a large dish-shaped object be pulled carefully out of the lorry and onto the tailgate, the whole thing lowering to the ground in a stately fashion.

So that's how they did it, Albus smiled triumphantly, how very ingenious and all without levitation charms too.

Then a series of boxes appeared, people bustling around them, checking things and splitting them into groups seemingly at random. A strange frame like thing was disgorged next, its purpose difficult to discern, though it did appear to have a seat at the front; even more confusing mysterious _things_ that he could only begin to guess the purpose of.

One of the very muggle looking people pulled out a wand and began levitating some of the boxes on to a strange yellow contraption. A tall and blocky young woman took the controls and the entire thing moved towards the steps at the main door and began climbing them in a series of wheezing clunks disappearing inside the building.

"Would it be alright if we installed a satellite dish on the roof?" Strange asked as she approached, some of her staff nervously hanging back behind her.

"Oh…of course it's fine," Dumbledore blinked in surprise. He wasn't entirely sure what she was asking about but…

One of the black clad Aquila people murmured something in Strange's ear. "Oh, yes," she exclaimed, "and the solar array. I'm ever so sorry, Headmaster, would that be alright too?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Whatever you need, my dear."

" _Albus_ ," Minerva hissed, "why are you letting them do this?"

oOo

"So what does this do?" Dumbledore asked a finger hovering over one of the brass buttons on the front of the intriguing mahogany case that now sat on the desk in Carrow's teaching office. The normally Spartan and neat room looked as if it had been hit by a storm in a cardboard factory, boxes tape and other bits of packaging littering the floor.

From the mural Carrow had painted at one end, heroic figures peered out in disapproval at the unusual disruption. A grey metal box he'd been assured was a generator and apparently required much fussing had made an appearance in one corner along with yards and yards of cable and wire. In the midst of all this Carrow hovered in anticipation, looking very in the way.

Beside the elegant case on the desk sat a blank picture frame, its surface dark and featureless and in front of that sat a keyboard that looked as if it had been liberated from a typewriter, one of the upright sort with lovely brass fittings, not one of these new fangled things. Next to it was a curious cradle of metal filigree which held a highly polished brass ball. What this was all in aid of he couldn't even begin to imagine.

The Aquila Ind. personnel had turned Carrow's office into a hive of frenetic activity. Mysterious objects were being unpacked, pipes put through the wall, and wires appearing from seemingly nowhere.

The young witch who had set up all this fascinating equipment gave him a tolerant smile as she perched elegantly in Carrow's over sized chair, carefully spreading the lace skirts of her robes as she did so. Like Severus, she seemed to be one of those people who firmly believed you couldn't wear enough black; even her lips had been carefully painted black.

"All ready to go, Patricia," the workman behind them said from his fascinating maze of cables that hung in and around a series of boxes he'd very noisily fixed to the wall.

"Right," the young witch, apparently Patricia, said. Stretching out an elegant be-ringed finger, she pressed one of the brass buttons on the front of the mahogany case. Deep within the case something sprang into life with a deep soft hum, lights flickering into life as it gave a strident beep. The screen flickered and to Dumbledore's amazement lines of green text began to scroll up it, pausing occasionally before resuming their trek.

With a triumphant chime, the Aquila Ind. double headed eagle appeared in the middle of the screen ringed by crepuscular rays, before flickering to an image of textured stone littered with mysterious symbols.

Patricia seemed quite unfazed by all of this as she fiddled with the marble ball in its cradle. A black rectangle appeared on the screen containing even more scrolling green text…

"I'm ready to begin the initial connection," Patricia announced to the room as she began to tap away at the keyboard.

"What is this all in aid of…what does it do?" Dumbledore murmured as he sidled up to Strange where she stood consulting with one of her colleagues.

Strange blinked at him in surprise. "Oh…it's a computer. It's just a bigger more powerful but considerably less portable version of one of these." She waved the object she was holding. He gave it a dubious look; he'd been assuming it was a folder but apparently not. Dumbledore sighed to himself; yet more evidence of Carrow's highly infectious nature. It was also probably the most unhelpful answer he could have received. Something of his feelings must have shown in his expression because Strange continued.

"So it connects to the Satellite dish on the roof. The satellite dish sends information to and receives information from a satellite which is currently in low Earth orbit."

"In space," Dumbledore reeled in shock, "among the stars."

Strange smiled. "Not among the stars precisely, but above Earth's atmosphere. At Aquila Ind. we have a satellite dish just like the one on the roof here, so that means when everything is set up we can send all sorts of information back and forth."

"Oh," Dumbledore blinked, "my…thank-you."

Strange gave him a polite smile.

"Please forgive an old man's memory," Dumbledore gave her a hopeful smile, "but I cannot for the life of me recall the young lady Patricia or what House she was in. Maybe she attended school elsewhere, Beauxbatons maybe, and I'm just getting confused."

Strange shook her head with a laugh. "Patricia is non-magical. In fact, she's about as un-magical as it's possible to get and still be alive. So, no…she didn't attend Hogwarts, rather her local High School and then college, before entering into an apprenticeship with us."

Dumbledore stared in disbelief.

"Yes," Strange continued fiddling with her official ID, "we're a curious mixture of magical and non-magical and everything in between. I've never worked somewhere so creative before. It's so exciting."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Never thought we'd see this grotty building again," Caroline muttered as they crouched behind a couple of skips in an alley across the road. The 1960's office block loomed into the night sky, its shabby unloved concrete streaked with water stains, its windows reflecting the orange glow of the streetlamps.

"It's depressing just looking at it," Annie agreed, "that was a bad period for architecture. Give me gothic revival anytime."

"Really?" Caroline said, "I always thought it was a bit clunky myself."

Their personal radios clicked three times, the tinny hiss of static sounding alarmingly loud in the darkness of the alley. "The signal," Annie sighed, "let's go."

They sped across the road so quickly they would have been little more than dark blurs to a casual passerby, round the van of equipment and technical types Carrow had brought in on this mission (probably all nice and cozy and drinking coffee). Without breaking stride, they leapt over a security fence into a courtyard that seemed to be a graveyard for old crisp wrappers and drinks cans. In the corner, a shabby car with flat tyres lurked by a skip and several broken pallets.

Behind the skip, Charles had crouched down in an effort to hide and was now glaring at them. "What took you?" he hissed. "The others are in place already."

"Did the Big Boss really decide to go in through the roof?" Annie asked, as they got into position.

"Yes he did," Charles sighed, obviously regretting being left behind, "jumped from the office block over there, too. Nearly didn't make it as well. Scariest thing I've ever seen…I think he misjudged it, got a bit over enthusiastic."

"Heh," Caroline muttered, "so no giant splat on the pavement then. Knowing him, though, he'd probably bounce."

"Can we get on with it," Charles whined, " _please_?"

"Fine, fine," Annie muttered glaring evilly at his back as they got into position, creeping along the wall, the building towering up above them in the orange gloom of the city night.

The fire-exit did little to slow them down, crumbling away with a charm of disintegration. Creeping forward, they made their way towards the emergency stairs, plain concrete things with linoleum treads and metal balustrades, a continuous stain at waist height marked where years of people had trailed their fingers or brushed up against the wall.

"This is even more depressing than the outside," Caroline muttered softly next to Annie's ear. Charles glared at them.

The stairs were eerily quiet, lit only by the odd flickering fluorescent tube-light as they crept up to the eighth floor. As they reached their target, Carrow loomed out of the gloom, crouching beside the fire-doors that made their exit from the stairwell. Behind him the others lurked, Methuselah busily examining a moth that had perched on the wall.

Carrow gave them a sharp nod as they arrived at the door. "Do you remember what is required of you?" he asked with a scowl. Caroline suspected he was enjoying himself immensely.

Apparently satisfied with everyone's response, Carrow carefully forced his fingers between the door and the frame before prying it away to one side, leaving it in a tangled twisted heap to the side of the doorway. Sliding through, he looked around carefully his plasma pistol ready, before silently loping away.

"Methuselah," Edwin hissed, " _come on!_ "

The elderly vampire gave the moth a regretful glance. "I do believe I have several of this species within my collection….but it is a nice example," he sighed.

Shaking her head in exasperation, Caroline followed Annie and Charles as they went to find the office server. They'd been given strict instructions and even an intense training session on what to do. Apparently, they had to plug something into this marvel of modern technology so the techy bods in the van down below on the street could access all the files and documents of the insurance company the Boring Man they had followed weeks before on a gamble worked for. Why? Caroline could only begin to guess. It wasn't unreasonable to believe Boring Man was operating on his own, supplementing his income with a bit of something on the side. It wouldn't be unheard of…

The company's IT department was tucked away in a couple of cupboard like offices at the back just behind the toilets, the server stuffed in a corner in its very own cupboard. Somebody had tried to cheer it up a bit with a couple of strands of tired looking tinsel.

"This is it, isn't it?" Charles asked, looking rather anxious.

"Think so," Annie trundled forward, pulling the device the techy people had given them out of a pouch. Crouching down, she got to work.

"Guard the door," Caroline muttered to Charles, "I'll search the office."

The male vampire looked distinctly grumpy about the whole thing. "Why me?" he growled back.

"Because I'm nosier than you," Caroline gave him a smirk.

Charles huffed indignantly, but went and lurked in the short passageway outside, his Solaris rifle at the ready as he peered out into the tangle of beige cubicles that made up the main office floor.

"Death Star receiving," Annie muttered into her radio, the device clicking to itself. There was a pause and a hiss of static, a " _Receiving you Millennium Falcon_ ," then a click and silence.

Caroline began rooting through a filing cabinet which proved to be full of multiple copies of forms, a rather extensive supply of air-fresheners and a stuffed lion.

"Device installed and showing green light, over," Annie replied.

" _Copy Millennium Falcon, making contact, over._ "

She wasn't sure exactly what she was looking for, but Caroline was sure she'd know when she saw it. The filing cabinet had proven to be duff, but the drawers on the desk were proving to be more interesting. Among the miscellaneous stationary and chocolate bar stash was a collection of those funny plastic disk things that slotted into computers. One of the computer people had assured that these things were on the way out, virtually obsolete and soon to be replaced with those silver disks that always seemed to break in her hands. But obviously this IT department hadn't got that memo…

She began to pull them out, making a neat stack on the desk.

" _Millennium Falcon receiving."_

"Receiving, Death Star," Annie chanted into her radio.

" _Contact established, Millennium Falcon, we'll take it from here. Out._ "

"Millennium Falcon?" Caroline smirked at her friend. "The Big Boss didn't choose that, did he?"

"Nah," Annie said, "I agreed it with the computer freaks just before we left."

The sharp crack of gunfire rattled through the office.

"That's not one of ours," Caroline brought her energy rifle up striding towards the door. "You keep on that thing," she said over her shoulder, "we'll guard."

Annie made a disgruntled noise as the sounds of violence filtered through the office, followed by frantic running and shouting.

"I thought this placed was supposed to be empty," Charles complained.

"Obviously not," Caroline hissed back, getting into a ready crouch, "now concentrate." Charles huffed indignantly, but fell silent as the chaos continued. An office chair flew past closely, followed by a shower of paper, pot plants and other desk paraphernalia. A foot high Christmas tree rolled past, shedding decorations as it went. Several of the cubicle barriers crumpled under the concussive pressure of a blasting hex.

The Boring Man loomed round the corner, blood pouring down his face, coming virtually nose to nose with Charles. He looked decidedly ruffled and battered, his previously cold eyes now full of fearful rage.

They both brought their weapons up to bear on the frantic muggle, but Charles was too close. The Boring Man was inches away, something flashed in his hand, something white, metal, _blade_. Caroline tried to shout a warning, but the knife, _silver,_ was already entering Charles's gut, his eyes wide and shocked, mouth opening to shout, to warn…

Caroline pulled the trigger of her Solaris rifle, the flash of super-heated plasma hitting the Boring Man in the side of the head, vaporizing much of his skull, just as Charles went rigid, cracks forming in his skin as he crumbled to the floor in a pile of lumpy dust and suddenly empty gear, his rifle landing beside his remains with a clatter.

"Charles? _Charles!_ " Caroline's frantic screams brought Annie running, her gun at the ready. She came to a screeching halt as she took in the scene of carnage.

"Oh, Merlin!" she gasped, a hand flying to her mouth, horrified as the blood of the Boring Man seeping into the grubby beige carpet by her feet.

"Stay on guard," Carrow snarled as he loomed into view. Annie jumped, guiltily pulling her Solaris into a more defensive position. Shouldering past, Carrow took in the pile of lumpy ash and clothing lying next to a headless corpse, his expression indecipherable.

Caroline stared at the immortal remains of her sort-of friend. They'd known each other for nearly a century, fought, argued, bickered…and now he was going to get trodden into someone's carpet like so much ash. He didn't deserve it, no matter how annoying he'd been, but it happened to so many of their kind, a pile of ash blown away in the wind, swept away like so much trash…

"He died fighting." The sudden boom of Carrow's voice made them jump. "Has the server been downloaded?" he snapped.

"Erm, I, err…I'll check," Annie scuttled off, almost flushing pink she was so embarrassed.

"We cannot, will not leave him here," Carrow announced.

Caroline looked at him in surprise, a tickle of something, hope maybe, growing at the back of her mind.

"You!" Carrow pointed one enormous finger at one of the others. "Find a container, _now_."

The vampire, thin and nervous, leapt to attention, scurrying off among the destruction, frantically looking for something suitable. John…or Andrew maybe, Caroline thought distractedly, one of the young ones she barely knew. He'd only been turned a decade or so. Maybe in fifty years she'd be able to remember his name…and now, of course, there was only twelve of them…

"Sir, download complete," Annie called from the cramped office. "Sir?" she put her head round the doorway when she received no reply.

John, or Andrew, or maybe Matthew, scuttled back holding a large plastic tub with a lid. "Will this do?" he babbled, "I tipped the contents out. I hope that's okay, I…erm…maybe…it's a little too large I think. I could go and…"

"It's _fine,_ Andy." Annie shoved past, grabbing the storage tub from the dithering vampire. Quickly they worked together to gather up the crumbling ashen lumps that had once been Charles, placing them in the tub, Caroline gently pouring out the ash trapped in his garments before folding them and passing them to one of the others.

"There's still a lot of…of…ash on the floor," Edwin whispered, as he stared blankly at the mess on the grubby carpet.

"I have an idea," Annie said as she bounced up and sprinted off amongst the remains of the office.

"What?" Edwin asked dazed, looking as if his world had caved in.

Caroline shrugged, "I don't know."

A thumping squeaking sound announced Annie's return as she triumphantly presented them with the office vacuum cleaner. It was a squat red and black affair, with curiously, a smiling friendly face on the front, the hose acting as its nose.

"And we're going to need this too," she waved a brown cardboard thing, "I've seen the cleaning ladies do it, so it can't be too hard."

"Erm…why would we need to do that?" Andy asked.

"So we've got _all_ of Charles, or as much of him as we can gather," Caroline gave him a withering stare, "and so poor Charles doesn't get mixed up with random office carpet fluff and dog hair and who knows what that's been trodden in here."

"Exactly," Annie glared at Andy, who was now hunched up and trying to hide behind Methuselah.

"A most excellent idea. Very efficient," Carrow said, as he knelt down beside the vacuum cleaner. "Now how do we go about changing the…bag of this infernal machine? I have also seen the staff perform this maintenance ritual, but I do not know what prayers of appeasement for its machine spirit should be uttered." He gave the vacuum cleaner a dubious prod.

"Machine spirit?" Annie mouthed at Caroline obviously puzzled.

Caroline shrugged; frankly, she had no clue either.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Honestly, Timothy," Mum scowled over her cup of coffee, "it's your day off. You really don't need to dress like that."

Timothy shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, the neck of his latest dolman (all black thankfully) digging into his neck it was so stiff and new. He didn't want to admit it, especially with Mum around, but he really didn't have any casual clothing at all (Carrow had happened to it), and this also, really, wasn't his day off. It was more he'd been forcibly frog-marched out of the office by Wulfric with Percy's collusion.

" _Don't worry, sir, if anything important happens we'll contact you…"_

"… _go and enjoy yourself…"_

"… _put your feet up, sir, and relax."_

He gave Wulfric a sideways glare which the werewolf studiously ignored. Now he was stuck here at his parents', trying to dodge Mum's annoying questions about his wardrobe or lack thereof.

"If you're struggling to find time to get things," Mum carried on, "I'd be delighted to help out. I know how hard you work, and heaven knows I've been making sure your father doesn't go around naked long enough…"

"Ah…umm. Thanks, Mum," Timothy felt himself come out in a cold sweat, "really, it's fine, I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" Mum frowned. "It's no trouble at all really, finding you some nice jumpers and things…"

Timothy laughed nervously. "I'm fine, Mum, honestly, but thanks for the offer."

How the heck was he supposed to relax with Mum on the prowl like this? Seriously, the last time he'd been daft enough to let her near his clothes, he'd ended up with orange and brown paisley y-fronts (nice and warm and sensible apparently) that he'd been forced to give a nasty accident to.

And of course, he mustn't forget the nasty incident involving a particularly hideous jumper Mum had once given him for Christmas one year, which he'd been forced to wear all day. What she'd been thinking when she'd picked him something in such a violent shade of turquoise, he'd no idea. He'd given it to a work colleague in the end. Actually, that was the Christmas just before he'd started working for Carrow; obviously it had been a portent of things to come.

"Are you sure, darling?" Mum asked, obviously surprised at the rejection of her generosity. "Oh, well…any significant others…in your life?"

Timothy froze, wishing more than ever that he was miles away. Even sparring with the Giant Lump was looking attractive at this point.

"Any young ladies...or young men? I'm not one to judge."

"Sorry," Wulfric muttered out of the side of his mouth.

"You'd better be," Timothy growled, not feeling the slightest bit forgiving.

"You know you don't need to be shy," Mum looked between him and Wulfric, "your Dad and I love you and support you no matter what and…"

"Mum," Timothy hissed his insides trying to claw their way out through sheer embarrassment.

"…you'll always be our little boy…"

"Mum," he whined. This was terrible, why did Mum always feel the need to do this in front of other people?

"…always be here for you darling…"

" _Mum!_ " Timothy snapped, "I'm fine, honestly, thank you, but I'm fine. I'm not dating anyone at all, and it's fine…just fine."

Mum gave him an appraising look. "You really ought to eat more as well, you know."

Snatching up the remote, Timothy did his best to ignore Wulfric's poorly disguised amusement. "Let's watch some TV, shall we," he said with gritted teeth, picking a channel at random…something very dry and serious and achingly dull about finances. Percy would love it…fashion makeover? No, absolutely _not_ …ooh, something medical. He could deal with that…

"… _only realised he'd got a needle in his foot the next day, when he struggled to stand on it. Fortunately, with the handy use of a metal detector, George was able to prove to the Doctors he wasn't imagining it. Meanwhile, in the waiting room little Andrew (age 3) has just arrived with his mum after losing a lego brick up his left nostril…"_

Blissfully dull and normal; Timothy sank back into the sofa with a relived sigh.

"How the hell are they going to get that out?" Wulfric asked, obviously fascinated.

"Very long tweezers," Mum suggested.

Timothy left them to it as he drifted off into a vague fog of mild interest. There was nothing like other peoples' often highly amusing injuries being displayed for public enjoyment as the owners explained how they'd acquired them in the first place. He barely even twitched as the program's logo flashed up on the screen with a shortened version of the theme tune, the screen abruptly switching to the adverts, something about toothpaste.

He was almost dozing off, when…

…triumphant music blared out, all trumpets and drums and things while the British Eagle Airways logo flashed onto the screen, but then was revealed to be on the tail-fin of one of the ugliest aircraft he'd ever seen, including Big Bertha, large and black and angular and extraordinarily aggressive, considering it was being presented as a civilian aircraft…

Timothy had a feeling that, since Carrow had obviously designed it, the civilian bit was an optional extra.

…the camera panned round, as the aircraft took off, bludgeoning its way into the air, its rectangular engine exhausts glowing an eerie blue. Following the unusual craft up into the air, the view panned round it, its insignia proudly displayed in gold against the black of its angled flanks…

…the cockpit set high up on the hunched craft, the captain sitting in her chair like a queen on her throne, her flight crew working around her, calling out data and messages as she watched information scroll up on a screen placed next to her chair…

…the passenger cabin, an air steward working his way along, as he checked on the passengers in their small cubicles, his uniform definitely a product of Carrow's fevered imagination, the camera moving forward to take in a young professional looking couple as they cooed over their baby who was strapped into a specially designed baby seat…

…and through a window of the aircraft, the viewpoint turning to watch the "plane" as it drew away into the clear sky, seemingly disappearing into the sun, the music reaching a crescendo as the image stilled, and the British Eagle Airlines logo made its reappearance, members of the crew in their uniforms gazing sternly into the distance as they saluted. Underneath appeared the slogan; " _To the stars and beyond!_ "

"Oh, Throne!" Timothy snapped, beyond appalled.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

* * *

Author's Note  


Here it is, finally :-D and on the actual date I promised too. Will wonders never cease.

Thank-you for your continued support and patience...and enjoy :-)

* * *

Chapter 6

Sniffling, Caroline dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. The thing had been white once, but was now a wretched blood stained rag. Annie wasn't much better, standing beside her, bloody tears streaking down her cheeks as she watched with rapt attention.

The Chapel had never before meant so much, places of worship not being particularly friendly towards vampires on the whole. The wall paintings were just visible in the flickering candle light, the various unfamiliar saints, heroes and even monsters watching this special service in interest. Some had even moved closer for a better look.

Charles was receiving a funeral, a _real_ funeral, his ashes now decanted into a white marble urn decorated with a laurel wreath and winged skulls, a small brass plaque engraved with his name and…they'd never been quite sure how old he'd been. Caroline doubted he had known either, and so the plaque merely proclaimed his date of death. _Died in Action_ it proclaimed underneath.

The buzzing drone of the servitors' chant seemed to swell as two of their number swung censors, releasing billowing clouds of myrrh scented smoke into the flickering shadows of the Chapel. Others held thick candles decorated with symbols of death. Another held a large purple cushion trimmed with black fringing and tassels. On it lay Charles's personal weapons, from his Cadia, specially polished, to the small clasp knife he'd had in his procession for as long as she'd known him.

Carrow stepped forward, his prayer book clasped in his hands, his imposing figure swathed in black hooded robes, as he joined in the servitors' chanting.

"… _Love the Emperor,_

 _for He is the salvation of mankind._

 _Obey His words,_

 _for He will lead you into the light of the future._

 _Heed His wisdom,_

 _for He will protect you from evil._

 _Whisper His prayers with devotion,_

 _for they will save your soul._

 _Honour His servants,_

 _for they speak in His voice._

 _Tremble before His majesty,_

 _for we all walk in His immortal shadow…" *_

Caroline managed to catch among the High Gothic.

Annie chocked back a sob as Carrow gently picked up the urn and paced over to one of the skull racks. Part of it had been removed to make way for an elaborately carved and gilded niche that bore a great resemblance to a shallow side-table to Caroline's mind, one which had become a hiding place for an agonised statue of a mouldering body complete with marble maggots. It had been a long time since she'd seen such an impressive momento mori. The lump in her throat grew, overwhelming her until to her intense surprise she could no longer control her tears.

Those around her weren't much better, Edwin trembling as he watched the proceedings with an inhuman intensity his cheeks stained pink in a ghastly imitation of life, Methuselah dabbing at his cheeks with a lace trimmed handkerchief, the other younger more immature vampires watching in incomprehension. Beyond them stood Timothy, Wulfric and the others, watching at a respectful distance, their expressions grim. Natasha…Natasha was attempting to chew one of the servitors…

Blast it; Caroline frantically looked round to see if anyone else had spotted the little monster up to her usual tricks, but no such luck. Cautiously, she sidled past the others, grabbed the little pest and dragged her back to the other Coven members. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Timothy's lips twitch in amusement, but when she turned to look at him he was his usual poker-faced self. At least some people knew how to behave with decorum, she thought as she gave Natasha a little shove towards Edwin and re-took her place next to Annie.

As Carrow placed the urn in its final resting place, the chanting of the servitors reached a crescendo, and Annie, unable to contain her emotions any longer, broke down into choking sobs, burying her face in Caroline's shoulder. Wrapping her arms around her friend, Caroline watched in a daze as the servitor bearing Charles's weapons stepped forward and placed them on their ridiculous pillow in front of the urn. Wreaths and bouquets of flowers followed as candle stands were placed on either side.

More prayers were intoned but she wasn't really paying attention by then, until finally the servitors stalked away in a neat procession, Carrow following in their wake, head bowed.

"Is it over?" Annie whispered as they disappeared through the double doors.

"I…I think so," Caroline whispered back. It had been a very long time since she'd last had anything to do with a Church service and what Carrow had just provided them with had borne only the slightest resemblance to what she could remember. Around them the others began to shift, a murmur of conversation beginning to grow.

Annie trailed forward still sniffling to examine Charles's memorial more closely, and for more personal morning. Caroline smiled sadly as the younger vampire clasped her hands in silent prayer.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Timothy said as he approached looking utterly exhausted, Wulfric behind him looking so uncomfortable, "for _all_ your loss…" he ran a nervous hand through his hair, "I…Charles, he died fighting I understand." His smile was more of a painful grimace.

Caroline nodded, trying to smile through her tears but it felt almost painful. She swiped at an errant tear that threatened to embarrass her.

"You must have been to a fair few funerals over the years," Timothy sighed as he gazed up at Charles's memorial.

"Not really," Caroline shrugged at his surprised look, "nobody really mourns the loss of a vampire, not really…except for Carrow."

"Can't I mourn the loss of a friend instead then?" Timothy asked quietly.

"I…oooh," Caroline punched in him in the arm before slumping against him, "why do you have to be so _difficult_?"

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Somebody had placed elaborately decorated trees, _Christmas_ trees, on either side of the Chief Warlock's seat. Christmas…he was still getting used to this _ancient_ Terran tradition; Carrow gave a delicate shudder. It would take a while, but he was sure that given time, and a little persuading of a certain reluctant living deity, he could direct Humanity towards true and God-Emperor fearing ways. Time was, after all, on his side.

Artemis yawned widely, displaying her impressive canines to the current occupants of the public balcony of the Wizengamot, before settling down more comfortably at his feet for a snooze.

Obviously he should bring her more often, if the ring of empty seats around them was anything to go by. Carrow smirked at the nearest press person, who flinched and nearly dropped his quill over the balcony. Beyond him sat Rita Skeeter, who eyed him warily, but gave him a curt nod in greeting.

He supposed she might eventually forgive him; he had been gentle after all, she still had the use of all her limbs, and now he didn't feel honour bound to use torture as an interrogation technique…

"Order! Order!" Dumbledore banged his gavel of office loudly, "if the honourable members would take their seats then we may begin."

The frantic scramble that followed was almost amusing as the unseated members all did their best to not be the last one standing, an honour which predictably fell to Black. Making the most of the moment, Black bowed and grinned at his colleagues, managing to raise a rather listless titter of laughter, though Lady Cromwell could be very clearly heard making her feelings know.

Dumbledore banged the gavel again, "Now we are all seated I declare this Christmas session of the Wizengamot begun. Minister Fudge, Acting Senior Under-Secretary Faulks…let us turn our minds to the first item on today's itinerary…"

The topic of discussion rapidly moved around to the new bill for Educational Reform, young Timothy's pet project, and something that the British Magical population was in dire need of, considering the quality of the essays his dear students kept trying to pass off as homework. He always made sure that the training was especially harsh after a particularly poor submission.

But of course, like any stagnant isolated population, they were extremely resistant to change and were now _yet again_ challenging something that would benefit them greatly if only they would listen. They would learn. He would make them.

"… _how much better prepared our children would be, I can speak from experience here…"_

Carrow was sure the Headmaster could, at length.

"… _and this is a wonderful opportunity to provide all our children, regardless of background, a solid foundation in the three R's. Not everyone is a natural teacher or has the time or inclination to go that extra mile needed to instil a wonder in learning in an impressionable young mind…and then there is the second major reason why we would benefit our children…"_

Dumbledore gazed round the dubious gathering…

"… _for many youngsters nowadays Hogwarts is sadly their first experience of mixing with children their own age…and it doesn't always come naturally to them…"_

Carrow narrowed his eyes; what was Dumbledore's game here? Obviously he must have his little group of followers on board with this. Not the Order of the Phoenix, but the other lot. Was he actually going to throw his weight behind this, or was he going to pull the rug out from under Timothy's feet at the last moment? Regardless, it would be a good experience for his budding apprentice.

There was some more inane bickering and arguing; it seemed the Headmaster's comments on social isolation had hit a sore point for a number of Wizengamot denizens, and the discussion threatened to get quite out of hand if Dumbledore hadn't chosen that moment to intervene and got them back on track.

The Old Guard Traditionalists did their best to keep things off track, or rather, should he say Lady Cromwell went on the attack.

" _...going to fund this, no doubt, worthy project?"_ Lady Cromwell barked, her glare impressive even at this distance. Ah yes, Lady Cromwell, their only big gun, thanks to the "Dark Lord" having previously decimated their ranks; and then, because of course you couldn't leave the supporters of a cultist lying around, he'd been forced to cull them. Such a shame.

Of those left...to say they were all but politically neutered was putting it mildly, the addition of the new members having caused them to splinter into factions as they bickered and fought for and against courting these newcomers, and they weren't the only ones. Even Dumbledore's little group contained some rather conservative elements who certainly weren't comfortable with the idea of approaching the new Lady Lestrange. The Sociology lecturer was just too intense; even he'd had the feeling from her that she was experimenting on them in some way, watching their every action and gesture far too intensely.

But no matter, back to the topic on hand. Certainly the details of a special educational budget was something Timothy had sorted out, aided and abetted by Weasley who seemed to derive an abnormal amount of pleasure from such things. A born bureaucrat if ever there was one.

"… _a pilot scheme involving Geoffrey Sutton Junior School located in Godric's Hollow. They already hold extra-curricular classes on the Magical World to cater to the needs of the large local Magical population, not just half-bloods but many muggle-born attend too. It would be a simple matter to turn this into a more formal, permanent arrangement…"_

The predictable argument about getting too close to muggles broke out while Timothy did his best to direct their attention away from it and towards the cheapness and efficiency of such a scheme. Yes…the less these people had a reason to look too closely at Godric's Hollow the better.

His eyes swept over the gathering. He was certainly going to stay away from Lestrange as much as he could, several of the others had immediately gravitated towards the Neutrals, though were probably open to coaxing…and as for the vampire… he gazed over to where Augustus Prince sat taking in the sway of argument. Despite his various attempts to persuade the man (not-man?) to his side, Prince had stayed annoyingly neutral as he observed the political climate of the Wizengamot.

Ah, it appeared they were moving on. Obviously Dumbledore was determined to keep the meeting on track; definitely a necessary skill in a politician. The number of times he'd become stuck in meandering meetings with some colourless milk-sop who'd probably bribed his (or her) way into power. Why, there was that occasion on Sterilis IV, a blasted rock of a world covered in tundra and ice, its seas teeming with vicious and inedible (to normal humans) wildlife, its only redeeming feature being the highly profitable Bastnasite mines.

The Bastnasite, predictably had attracted all sorts of wealth and riches and of course parasites to Sterilis IV, hence the weak and corrupt planetary government and the spineless waste of space who'd thought keeping specimens of the planet's apex predator in small cages would make him look more manly.

He'd been shown the magnificent six legged cat like creature (a Highland Mossy Sliger apparently) and had been suitably impressed by its beauty and size, not that he'd told the over dressed twit of a Governor that. He disapproved strongly of keeping creatures like that in such close confinement, so at the first opportunity he'd had he'd let the poor thing free and it had seemed quite appreciative. When the large, unhappy and extremely hungry Highland Mossy Sliger had invaded the Parliamentary Upper House…well, it wasn't really his fault if some of the members were eaten, really…but it had been terribly convenient.

oOo

The milling crowds of Wizengamot members in their plum coloured robes eyed him warily, like antelope keeping an eye on the local pride of lions, as he walked through them to where Timothy stood sorting through his paperwork, Fudge standing by his side.

The man had lost weight, the skin hanging off his chin in loose folds, shivering as he talked at Timothy in a torrent of nervous verbal diarrhoea, his smart robes sack-like, burying his small frame.

"…still looking over my shoulder all the time, Faulks, he's after me, I know it…"

Fudge came to a juddering halt eyes wide as he finally noticed Carrow's approach, hands nervously twitching and grasping at his robes.

"Allesandor," Fudge squeaked, "how are you? Making a full recovery, yes?" He giggled nervously as he held out a hand to shake almost on reflex. Smirking, Carrow gently grasped the proffered hand, giving it the socially required (but very gentle) shake. It was always amusing to remind the annoying little man how easy it would be for him to just tear his arm off.

"A moment of your time," Fudge said as he quickly jerked his hand back, as he seemed to swell in an attempt to look more intimidating, "the report…where is it?"

Carrow raised on eyebrow; a report? Yes, Fudge had mentioned something of the sort, but he'd rather got the impression the man was expecting it at the end of the school year, in approximately seven and a half months Terran standard in fact.

"Yes, the report," Fudge scowled trying to look important, "on Dumbledore's activities…at Hogwarts?" He gave Carrow an accusing glare.

Taking a brave step forward, Fudge prodded him in the stomach with a finger. "The _report,_ Allesandor, on my desk, in a week."

Carrow needed snorted in amusement. "Hmmm, though I have done an initial gathering of information for such a report, Minister, it would be better to wait until the New Year."

Fudge glared up at him. "A week, Allesandor, a week."

"Except that if you wish me to interview and assess the staff and the students, it would be better to wait until they have recovered from their overdose of _festive_ spirits, Minister." Carrow gave the smaller man an indulgent smile.

Fudge opened his mouth to object, but apparently the part of his brain responsible for survival instincts had finally caught up. The resulting conflict of emotions was highly amusing. "Oh…yes, errr…yes, that's erm…"

"I shall have the report on your desk on the first of February, Minister," Carrow smiled down at the quivering wreck.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The main living room of No. 12 Grimmauld Place was just as garishly bright as he remembered, all light and pale with hints of gold and the ox-blood red upholstery, and so many lights; even muggle style fairy lights strung around the room, and around the multitude of mirrors and that ridiculous print of the dogs playing cards that hung over the fire place.

Carrow gave the bucking bronco a little shove as he stalked past it, setting it bucking and spinning, as he tried to find the most sombre part of the room to lurk in. Sirius's taste had not improved over the several years he'd known him, it had just become more…he wasn't sure. The man had to a degree refined his tendency to turn everything into a sparkling light box. There were a few more plants around, the odd cushion, considerably more books.

He squinted at the titles as the members of the Order of the Phoenix drifted into the room, most of them giving him suspicious looks as they gave him a wide birth, though Moody gave him a feral grin as he took his place next to Snape on the other side of the room.

Looked like Black's reading material was eclectic as his interior design choices; everything from popular fiction to ecology, to literary classics to motorcycle maintenance, even yoga. Carrow could just imagine Black's glee as he sneaked them into the house and then put them on blatant display. It was almost as if he believed himself to be defiant in the face of respectable society.

Ridiculous of course, he glowered to himself. The hubbub of conversation died down slightly as the Headmaster entered the room deep in conversation with Doge. Dumbledore did a little double take, but quickly regained his composure.

"Ah…wonderful," Dumbledore clapped his hands, "thank you for attending everyone, especially this close to Christmas. I know you all have much to do."

Carrow glared at the festive tree in the corner. The Christmas tree sat there with an air of innocence. It was, to Carrow's acute annoyance, coloured artificially to appear as if it had been dusted with a light fall of snow, and then someone, Black most likely, had set to work festooning the thing in yet more lights and baubles and other decorations that shimmered in silver and gold, and then he'd added tinsel and strings of silver beads. The tree itself was barely visible under the weight of the decorations.

Everywhere he went, it was as if he was being stalked by a plague of decorated conifers. If he were a less reasonable man, he might suspect malign intent, cult activity, intimidation tactics by a rival maybe…

Even Timothy had parked one of the pestilential things on his desk, a small one barely a foot high covered in baubles slightly too large for it. His apprentice was being oddly defiant about, almost daring others to comment. So far he'd ignored the blasted thing.

"…really don't want to do another morning shift," Black was whining, "come on, guys, it was terrible and I nearly got caught."

"Shouldn't have fallen asleep, should you lad," Moody growled, seeming more amused than anything.

"I'm not a morning person," Sirius folded his arms with an indignant huff.

"Well, I'm afraid I'm very much at work that particular morning," Arthur Weasley gave Black a pointed look, "so unfortunately I'm not available for guard duty."

Guard duty. His various sources had mentioned something of the sort. An object, a prophecy in fact, held within the Department of Mysteries that was of great interest to Voldemort. Personally, Carrow wasn't sure how he felt about such a prophecy, especially since it had not been made under the auspices of the God-Emperor himself.

"Just stop being lazy," somebody else snapped. To Carrow's intense interest the young woman's hair flushed from shocking pink to a deep angry red as she spoke. How extraordinary. Was it just her hair that changed colour? Could she consciously control it? Could she change anything else? Was she a mutant? Should he recruit her?

"Fine, fine," Sirius muttered, pouting at the room in general.

"Wonderful," Dumbledore smiled round at the assembled Order, "Now for our next item on the agenda…"

"Guard duty" Carrow boomed, "guarding what from whom?"

"Didn't your young friends inform you?" Dumbledore gave Moody and Snape a pointed look as the two men suddenly found the floor, the ceiling, a nearby piece of driftwood wrapped in twinkling lights incredibly interesting.

"I would like to hear it from you," Carrow said, locking eyes with the Headmaster.

Dumbledore's lips almost twitched in amusement. "Hmm, I see. Well then…we are currently guarding an item within the Department of Mysteries that Voldemort…"

Most of the room gave a collective twitch.

"…has certainly in the past greatly desired. I doubt even now, if there's anything of him left, that he'd feel any less interested in it. If not him, then his…new allies maybe…"

Carrow closed his eyes and said a small prayer in an effort to calm himself. These people…by the God-Emperor, they were a danger to themselves and each other. "If he, this Dark Lord, comes for this object, in his current state, not only would your _guard_ not survive, nor would the Ministry itself. That is the truth of the situation."

The room froze in horror for a moment.

"Surely you're joking, the _entire_ Ministry," Emelline Vance laughed hysterically. She jerked back as Carrow turned his attention to her. "We'd at least be able to get a warning off…wouldn't we?" she almost begged.

"No, you would not." Carrow sighed internally. The sheer naïve optimism and ignorance of these people would never cease to amaze him. They were so totally unaware of just how much danger they were truly in.

"The _only_ way you would be able to get a message off in such a situation would be if you had a method that, on the event of the guard's death, sent a pre-determined signal. Even then, there's no guarantee that it wouldn't be intercepted in some manner, stopped in its tracks, or warped and altered to some new and unwholesome purpose."

The gathered Order stared at him in silent horror.

He sighed heavily. Truly, he was going to have to retrieve this prophecy himself, if only to save these innocents form their ignorance. The God-Emperor's duty never ended.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

This had seemed like such a good idea at the time, Fudge scowled to himself as he pulled his nice warm cloak about himself tighter, an exciting little adventure on his way to teaching that damn Faulks a lesson about cheeking his social betters, but now that he was actually out in Knockturn he was starting to have misgivings about the whole thing.

He glanced around at the dark street, which thanks to the horrible cold and damp weather was rather empty at the moment, light from windows glinting off the slick cobbles. Hostile eyes watched him from the darkness, unseen beings…things. He tightened his grip on his wand as he scuttled past the opening of a jitty, more like a maw onto who knew what, stuffed between two tall and narrow buildings, plaster peeling off their fronts revealing the wattle and daub underneath.

A shabby figure staggered out of a building, nearly bumping into the Minister, who jumped back, gagging at the overwhelming mixture of body odour and cheap alcohol coming off the man. "Watch where you're going," he snapped, his disgust overwhelming his better judgement for a moment.

The drunk turned on him with a snarl, nearly staggering into a wall. "You threat'ning me," he slurred, "wach yoooo wan'? Cum on then!"

Fudge staggered backwards, nearly tripping on his cloak-hem as he dodged around the drunken man as best he could, ducking a sloppy punch to the head. "Leave me alone," he yelled as he set off down the narrow street at an almost sprint. Dodging around the corner, he quickly left the drunk behind as he ran up Slink Alley as fast as his legs could take him. There, on the corner, lay his goal and a possible refuge from violent drunkards, the _Happy Hag's Button_ , a less than salubrious establishment but certainly more refined than the nameless gin-parlour that ruffian had staggered out of. Knowing this area, it really was someone's front parlour and the alcohol on sale distilled from whatever refuse the proprietor could get on their hands on; potato peelings, old apples, dead cats…who knew.

Heaving like a bellows, he staggered into the _Happy Hag,_ his legs uncooperative and feeling distinctly as if they were made of jelly. The warm heat of the public bar hit him, almost sending him reeling with the smell of stale food and beer and sweaty feet and the low hum of conversation. It faltered momentarily as he staggered in, the regulars pausing to watch him warily as he staggered to the bar.

The Landlord gave him a suspicious glance, which quickly turned (to Fudge's faint indignation) to utter annoyance. "Long time, no see Cornelius," the Landlord growled as he came over, "a little surprised to see you in here…all things considered." He gave Fudge a condescending smirk.

"Well," Fudge huffed, "I've been rather busy what with one things and another. You know, lots to do at the Ministry." He puffed his chest up importantly.

The Landlord's smirk widened. "You're not so popular round here, so best to keep your head down…which you aren't doing, Cornelius, not with that fancy cloak of yours." He strolled back down the bar to serve a few of the locals who'd begun banging their tankards impatiently. "Hold your horses, lads…your usual, eh?"

Fudge watched in bewilderment. Fancy cloak? This was the shabbiest one he owned, he only really used it when he was forced to do something in the garden in winter or needed something to throw on when walking his wife's dog, a creature that could do a passable impression of a white pom-pom. True, it had originally been rather nice, from _Twilfit & Tattings, _but that had been a rather long time ago. It was shabby and faded, and there was even the odd loose thread along the hem…

"If you're wanting to hire some of the lads for something, you can forget it," the Landlord said as he reappeared. "I'm not going to put trouble in their way, not after last time, and particularly not when some of them have real jobs and such to go to now."

"Erm, no…not really," Fudge nervously eyed the filthy rag the Landlord was wiping the bar with, shuddering at the idea of the disgusting thing just touching him. "I'm actually looking for someone," he said, licking his lips nervously.

"Oh aye," the Landlord eyed him suspiciously.

"Yes, erm…" Fudge ploughed on, "Caspian Glossop," he leaned forward conspiratorially, "I want to talk to him, ask him something."

"You aren't doing a favour for his old man, are you?" the Landlord asked.

"Er…no," Fudge said, "I am fairly certain that Glossop Senior is unaware that I'm currently here."

"Huh, fine then," the Landlord leaned forward, "the table two down from the door…and _don't_ come back here, Cornelius." He walked away to deal with one of his rowdier customers who was busily swearing up a storm at the other end of the bar.

Doing his best to look natural, Fudge glanced towards the table in question, only to find himself staring. Was that really Caspian Glossop? The thin figure slumped over the table was nursing a bottle of the Jolly Hag's cheapest rot-gut, his fingers blue and covered in scabs, almost as if he'd been punching his hands into buckets of nails. His robes didn't look much better.

Fudge steeled himself, maybe he was in luck. This was quite obviously someone down at heel, who'd probably do anything up to and including murder for a little bit of gold. Before he could approach him, Glossop got to his feet and limped to the side door slipping out into the urine smelling alley at the side of the pub.

Fudge frantically raced after him. He was _not_ going to let him get away, not this close, not after hunting for him for months. The alley was dark and smelly, and he really, _really,_ hoped that was just mud under his feet, because…

A hard weight slammed him into a damp and mouldy wall, something sharp pricking at his throat.

"What're ya following me for?" Glossop Jnr snarled out of the darkness.

"Wha, wha…" Fudge wheezed as the weight against him increased.

"Well?" Glossop snarled, "my bloody Dad had better not 'ave sent you."

"Not…From…Your…Father…Got a job for you," Fudge croaked around the fist in his throat, cold sweat trickling down his spine, "good…galleons."

Glossop Jnr snickered. "Maybe I'll just take the gold and you can stuff the job."

Fudge winced at the fetid smell of his breath, didn't the lad know any breath freshening charms. "Timothy…Faulks…" he managed to wheeze.

The suffocating weight reduced slightly. "What about him," Glossop demanded, "uppity little twat he is, needs putting in his place 'cos of his big head."

"Exactly," Fudge did his best to nod, "three hundred galleons to rough him over….one hundred now, the rest after successful completion."

Glossop Jnr. actually seemed to be seriously thinking his offer over now. "You want to pay me to thrash the mudblood twat? What if I accidentally kill the little shit?"

Fudge winced at the coarse language. "Well, accidents do happen, don't they?" he nervously laughed.

Glossop Jnr. snickered in the darkness. "Deal."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The snow lay deep and thick, blanketing the grounds, pristine and untouched in the early morning. It really was quite the magnificent sight, a white blanket rolling down to the lake which lay almost obsidian smooth, fringed by the trees of the Forbidden Forest, dark and twisted, and once upon a time he might even has gone as far describing them as forbidding, dangerous even.

That was, of course, _before_ Carrow had come along, Dumbledore sighed to himself as he sipped his early morning cup of tea. Yes, Carrow had a nasty tendency to put things into perspective…even Voldemort and the last war…

If Carrow ever decided to…to…Dumbledore shuddered hurriedly banishing the dark places his mind attempted to drag him to. It was far too early in the morning…and he was low on fire-whisky as well…

Actually, all things considering, this year hadn't been anywhere near as terrible as expected, despite Carrow's presence in the Castle, his close proximity to young and impressionable minds. Obviously, the older ones were inured to the man's terrible…awful…he grimaced. Poppy had pointed out an increase in the younger years requiring calming drafts, but still…

Movement near the school caught his attention. Ah, now who could this be…he scrabbled for his omnioculars. Ah, yes of course the daily walking of the tiger. Dumbledore watched intently as a dark too-tall figure strode through the snow, the large feline pouncing along at his side, his robes snapping and flapping around him as he strode along.

Carrow stooped scooping up some snow, Artemis bouncing around him in anticipation. With a heave, he flung the large snowball across the lawn, Artemis sprinting in its wake, her muscles flexing and shifting under her skin. She was utterly magnificent, and Dumbledore cooed; of course, he really didn't approve of having a large predatory feline in the Castle near children, but there was no denying her sheer beauty.

Predictably, the snow ball landed in a drift of snow, disappearing completely as Artemis ploughed into the drift after it. Increasingly frustrated, she smashed her paws into the snow, biting at it, her ears going back as she failed to find her prize. Looking round, she stared at Carrow, giving him a sarcastic glare that even Severus would have been proud of.

Carrow seemed to find the entire thing amusing, while a frustrated Artemis bounced around him in a manner quite aggressive, snapping at his arms and face. Dumbledore winced at the size of her teeth, he was quite certain that she could kill a normal human being with ease, but Carrow…

The two predators crashed to the ground in a flurry of snow as they playfully wrestled and fought with one another, rolling and thrashing in the snow. It seemed a minor miracle that there wasn't any blood dotting the landscape. Finally Artemis managed to get a grip on Carrow's arm, her teeth digging painfully into the man's robes. Carrow responded by tickling her behind her ears, dodging as she squirmed and wriggled trying to lick his face.

Yes…two predators, beautiful in their own way, but potentially deadly, dangerous and…

"Albus, are you coming to breakfast or not?"

Dumbledore turned to find Minerva watching him in exasperation, and here he was still in his nightgown and slippers, the ones with the fluffy pom-poms too…and he hadn't opened his presents yet either. Oh dear.

oOo

The pile of presents sitting on his coffee table was more ridiculous than ever this year; Snape glared at them as he shuffled past with his fourth cup of coffee of the morning. He'd do something with them eventually…just not yet…

Maybe he could use it as an excuse to get out of Christmas lunch, _"sorry Minerva I'm too busy unwrapping my presents."_ He had a feeling it wouldn't wash. No need to feel down though, there was always plan B, hide in the back of the wardrobe with an ample supply of books and a supply of coffee. Actually, that sounded like an excellent idea, particularly if he padded it out with some pillows and a few blankets…

He eyed the pile of presents again. Probably best to deal with them now rather than later, he thought with a groan. If the Weasley brats came down and found out he wasn't wearing the blasted jumper that Molly had almost certainly knitted him, it was bound to get back to her and then she'd be all tearful and polite and upset at him and somehow it was ten times worse than if she'd just shout at him.

There was nothing for it; plonking himself down, he pulled the first gift towards him...the usual annual letter from Narcissa and a box of ridiculously expensive little pastries under a stasis charm; excellent bribery material for Flitwick.

Ooh, the first Weasley gift, a trio of fresh claws, he looked at the accompanying note, a Swedish Short-Snout…how the hell had Charlie got close enough to retrieve those…of one of the breeding males had lost a fight and been partially eaten by the victor. But still…

…interesting book on Egyptian curses from Bill, definitely going on the bed-time reading pile…

…usual bottle of Ogden's finest from the Headmaster…and a pair of socks…

…fudge from Molly and Arthur…but mainly from Molly, along with a little note to inform him that they were expecting him to dinner on Boxing Day and they'd already cleared it with the Headmaster. Blast it…

…oh…the dreaded jumper. At least it was black and warm looking…oh, and this year he'd got a dragon, a silver and green dragon, though since it only appeared to have two legs it was technically a wyvern…

Something among the remaining pile shifted, a faint rustling and scratching noise clearly audible in the quiet of his personal quarters. Snape froze; it was possible it was some sort of stray rodent, but it would be unusual considering the Castle's magic, the small army of resident House Elves, not to mention all the kneazles that lived here nine months of the year.

Better safe than sorry, slowly and quietly he rose from the sofa and sidled over to the fireplace grabbing the poker.

The scratching and rustling became more frantic. Maybe it was a rat; Snape scowled, just what he needed on Christmas morning or maybe…a horrible thought crossed his mind. He hadn't got to Carrow's gift yet…

Carefully, using the poker, he shifted the remaining gifts aside to reveal the large and surprisingly gaudily wrapped box that was now shaking and trembling. What in Merlin's name had Carrow given him this year and how dangerous was it?

A quick unwrapping charm removed the wrapping paper without him having to come into contact with the actual box. Just one more…

The top of the cardboard box exploded open, causing him to nearly topple backwards over the coffee table (he did not scream and anybody who claimed otherwise would be severely hexed) as something small shot upwards squawking maniacally, before darting across the living room, into the bedroom and straight under the bed.

"Oh just bloody brilliant," Snape snarled, "just what I bloody needed."

The glowing tip of his wand illuminated the underside of his bed as he lay on his stomach trying not to sneeze at the dust that had accumulated there; looked like the house-elves had been slacking. Maybe he should put in a complaint.

The piles of potions journals loomed out of the gloom, waiting for when he had a bad night. There was nothing quite as soporific as a bunch of elderly and over opinionated potions masters bickering over some minute aspect of ingredient interaction.

His trunk was also where it should be, pushed up near the head end of the bed waiting for the summer when he would finally get the opportunity to attend a conference. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered with the things; there was so much fighting and bickering among his supposed peers it was tempting to try and put them in detention. Maybe he should try it…just the once…

Right there, tucked into the corner; he brought his wand forward, causing Carrow's present to try and shift further back, its trio of softly glowing eyes staring back at him, brass tentacles rustling softly against the top of the trunk.

Snape froze in muted horror. Carrow had given him a servo-skull…a servo-skull. What was he supposed to do with _that_? It certainly wasn't staying under his bed, he wasn't sure he'd be able to sleep knowing the strange little artificial creature was there, under him, scrabbling around, doing who knew what…

It was obviously frightened, like a small animal, and if his previous experiences with the annoying things were anything to go by he could, if he was careful, coax it out, with a little patience, as if he was dealing with a particularly timid and homesick first year Hufflepuff…

"It's all right," he tried attempting to make his voice as unthreatening and reassuring as possible, "it can't have been pleasant being trapped in that box…would you like to say hello?" cautiously he reached out a hand hoping the blasted thing didn't try sawing his fingers off or something.

Slowly, cautiously the servo-skull inched forward until tentatively it reached out a brass tentacle slowly slipping it around his middle finger with a small chirp. "See, that's it," Snape smiled; maybe this wasn't going to be so hard after all.

"Severus?" Minerva's voice came from the living room. Snape froze, oh bloody brilliant. "Severus, what _are_ you doing?"

Cheeping in fright, the little servo-skull scuttled back behind the trunk. Snape buried his face in his arms, trying to resist the temptation to bang his head on the floor in frustration. He could just strangle Minerva right now.

oOo

The atrium of the Ministry was deserted when he entered, the many fireplaces dark, his footsteps ringing in the silence as he strode past the hording that still surrounded that awful statue. He was quite certain the rich and heavy meal that had been indulged in today would work to conceal his disappearance from the school, at least for a little while.

He nodded in greeting to the very bored looking young man at the security desk as he made his way towards the lifts. Grimacing, he managed to squash himself into one of the uncomfortably small things, his head hunched uncomfortably under the ceiling. The lattice door closed behind him with an obnoxiously loud clatter. He would much prefer to take the stairs like a civilised person, but the Department of Mysteries didn't seem to be accessible that way, not that he'd been able to find out anyway, so the dratted lifts it was. He growled as he jabbed the button for the ninth floor.

The lift dropped alarmingly as he braced himself against the walls due to a lack of anything sturdy to hold onto. Blasted, stunted, normal sized…he ground his teeth in frustration.

" _Level Eight, unfashionable sub-basement, Department for Magical Maintenance and the Lair of the Senior Under-Secretary to the Minister for Magic,"_ a female voice announced, managing to sound as if it was insulting his intelligence. Much to Carrow's acute annoyance, the grill slid open with a rattle to reveal a familiar corridor now painted in a nice institutional pale green. Corkboards had been installed and were now displaying missives and important notices to his staff while nearby, after much haggling and campaigning from the muggle staff, a couple of vending machines had been installed. One dispensed hot caffeinated drinks when appeased with the correct prayers and a thump to the upper left corner, while the other was filled with a baffling array of confectionary his staff seemed to believe were important for morale. After an initial phase of complete bafflement, the magical staff had descended on the two machines like locusts.

The grill seemed to take an eternity before it finally slid shut with a clatter and the infernal contraption began descending once more.

" _Level Nine, Department of Mysteries,"_ the condescending voice cooed.

With a poorly concealed snarl, Carrow wrenched the lift door open and eased himself out into a very plain corridor, lit only with torches placed in brackets at intervals along the stone walls, their blue light giving the corridor an eerie cast. He snorted, unamused; it never ceased to amaze him just how desperately these people wanted to cling to an illusion of their recent past.

At the end of the corridor was a plain black door. With a put upon sigh, Carrow opened it, heaving himself through the ridiculously undersized opening. Beyond lay a circular room lined with doors, a very black circular room, even the floor of which had been polished to a liquid like shine. He had to approve of their sense for drama, though he would have added pictures, or statues maybe, between the doors, something suitably pious, preferably of the grimmer martyrs. They would certainly do things for the ambience.

Carrow barred his teeth as he slammed the door shut behind him. Around him the room began to spin, the doors disappearing in a blur as the blue torches left blue streaks before his eyes.

Surprised and extremely unhappy, Carrow shook the afterimages from his eyes as the room settled down again. He narrowed his eyes, now of course he had absolutely no idea which door he had entered from. A clever solution to security he would give them that, but not infallible. Marching forwards, he worked his throat, stimulating his Betcher's gland, feeling his mouth fill with the familiar sour metallic taste. It seemed a waste, but needs must…

Using a finger, he drew a gothic number one on the door using the highly toxic and corrosive saliva. The surface finish of the door bubbled and hissed, and the resulting number was slightly, to Carrow's eyes, misshapen, but it appeared to be permanent. Satisfied with the results, he worked his way around the room.

Wrenching the first of the now disfigured doors open, Carrow peered in, curious as to what he would find.

Was someone actually experimenting with servitor technology? He sidled up to the large tank that had been put in pride of place at the centre of the room. Within its confines swam a number of what were very obviously human brains tendrils of nerve tissue trailing behind them, giving them a passing resemblance to jelly fish. Curious; he couldn't quite see the purpose. The rest of the room was even less helpful.

When he tried door No.2 after the spinning central room settled down it proved to be locked, so not wanting to waste time he moved on to the next one.

Of all the things to find within the Ministry, he had to admit an amphitheatre was some way down his list. It didn't appear to be a courtroom; Carrow examined the space carefully as he descended the steps to the dais that sat at the bottom. It appeared, rather than simply being re-tasked, this room had been constructed for the sole purpose of housing the stone arch of all things that sat upon the dais at the centre of the room. It was a roughly constructed thing, heavily weathered as if it had endured many seasons beaten by sun, wind and rain, before it had become the centre piece of this theatre.

Curiously a thin curtain or veil of fabric hung within its arch, shifting and stirring in a slight breeze…which was curious because the air of the amphitheatre was unusually still and stale, as if the room hadn't been used in a long time.

Drawing closer, he cautiously circled the object; it wasn't Xenos that he could tell on casual inspection, Necron or Eldar or any of the multitude of species the Galaxy had spawned…the veil was fascinating, almost hypnotic in its movements…and there, just on the cusp of hearing were voices. Many voices that seemed achingly familiar, companions and allies long dead in their duty to the God-Emperor, but when he attempted to single them out…he jerked as one foot landed on the dais.

This object was highly dangerous. Without a backward glance, he strode back up the stone steps…to dwell on the dead, and he had so many dead…it was a dangerous distraction, from his duty to the God-Emperor, from his duty to the glory of Humanity.

The circular room was almost soothing as it whirred into life, the wall torches turning into streaks of blue fire. The sparkling light beyond the fourth door left him blinking as he sidled through the door to find a room filled with clocks. Wall clocks, mantle clocks, clocks in cases and ones with a multitude of weights hanging beneath them on chains, clocks with automata, a water clock even, none of them as fine as the one he had gifted the school, of course.

What was this all in aid of? Carrow frowned, grinding his teeth in growing frustration. Now logically, all prophecies would be recorded in serious looking leather bound tomes, by date, and there would be an automatically updating index of names. But of course this was the magical world, filled with people for whom the idea of logic was probably akin to some strange mythical creature…

Motion towards the back of his room caught his attention, and he stalked forward, eyes narrowed suspiciously. Of all the Emperor cursed things…a large bell glass, nearly as tall as himself, stood at the end of the room, but it was the content that was…problematic.

He edged closer, as the contents of the bell glass swirled upwards once more, aging as it did so…a small jewel like bird, tiny, glittering in the swirling golden dust within which it was caught…and then it began to sink receding and shrinking as it dropped towards the bottom until it became a tiny speckled egg again…time, they were studying time here. Could they…send things, objects…. _people_ through time? He could return…

"What do you think you're doing?" an indignant voice sounded down by his chest.

Looking down, Carrow found that a grey heavily robed figure had appeared in between him and the bell-jar arms outstretched protectively as it looked up at him, glared up at him. It was hard to tell, as there seemed to be some sort of obscuring magic on the person's hood that hid their face rather effectively.

"We've _heard_ things about you," the person growled, his or her voice oddly distorted, though Carrow had a suspicion that this individual was actually male. "What are you here for?" the man demanded.

Carrow considered his options; he could always fob this person off with something, or he could leave and come back later, or he could just tell them…

"I am here to retrieve a prophesy relating to myself," he said.

"Is that _all_?" the cloaked figure seemed extremely annoyed. "Why didn't you just make an appointment like a normal person?"

He could have made an appointment?

"Well, are you coming or not?" the robed man growled from the other side of the bell jar.

Carrow eyed the door on the other side of the bell-jar suspiciously. Shoving his way through the under-sized door, he found himself in another generously proportioned space, predictably lit with the ridiculous blue torches. This one was filled with rows and rows of shelves, filled with small and dusty globes, each one with a small label affixed to the shelf. He leaned in closer; _M.N to N.F Anathema (?)_

He turned at the sound of a meaningfully cleared throat to find the robed man looking distinctly annoyed. "Yours is further down this way," he said, before smartly walking away down the rows of shelves, before smartly turning a corner. Carrow followed after him.

 _S.P.P to A.P.W.B.D. Dark Lord and (?)Harry Potter_.

"This is it?" Carrow gave the shorter man an enquiring glare.

"I don't see any others with your name…old name on. Do you?" Carrow had a suspicion that he was rolling his eyes under his layers of cloak and concealing charms. Utterly unimpressed, Carrow picked up the small and extremely delicate looking globe, slipping it into his pocket before the robed man could object.

To his intense annoyance, the grey-cloaked man escorted him all the way back to the lifts.

oOo

"… _ **Nostrils:**_ _Jamming your finger up to the second knuckle into your opponent's nostril is a sure way to distract him and make him let go of you. For maximum effect, bend your finger into a hook before yanking it back out! (Figures 2 and 5)…**_

That sounded incredibly painful and disgusting at the same time; Hermione grinned to herself as she turned the page of her new book. Oooh, this one was good.

"… _blow to this area will cause concussion to the cerebellum, which is the portion of the brain concerned with the coordination of muscular movements and posture. This is a favourite target of assassins who specialise in hatchet work…"***_

For saying this was probably a joke present from Darling Dad, it was actually turning out to be quite interesting; be fun to try some of it out too. Shame she couldn't share it with anyone at the moment; it was like there'd been a mass exodus from the school; pretty much the entire DC had gone home, even Neville had been pulled home by his Gran eager to show him off to some distant relatives from Transylvania or something.

She'd have gone too if Mum and Dad hadn't decided to go on a romantic skiing trip for two, so here she was, virtually alone at Hogwarts with just Ron to talk to. She suspected that he'd only stayed to keep her company, which was…he'd given up a family Christmas to keep her company…she appreciated it.

She glanced over the top of her book. The second year with the really creepy stare was watching her again from the chair by the fire he seemed to have set up home in; yet another reason to sleep with a knife and a loaded gun under her pillow.

At one of the tables, a lone seventh year was scratching away with her quill surrounded by stacks of books despite the day, so determined was she to cram in as much studying as possible. Sensing she was being watched, the seventh year looked up, giving Hermione a nasty glare before going back to her books.

Yes, it was good Ron had stayed…but where was he? They'd planned on getting a bit of grappling practice in before Christmas lunch and if he didn't hurry up, she was going to go up there and physically drag him from his bed…

One of the Weasley Twins, Fred or George she wasn't sure, burst out from the boys' staircase looking as if the hounds of Hell were after him. Seeing Hermione glaring at him, he screeched to a halt in the middle of the common room, obviously panicked as she pulled herself up from her seat, barely noticing when his brother slammed into his back.

Behind them, Ron emerged from the stairs with a furious snarl, face almost purple with rage, fist clenched ready to pummel something into submission.

"We're sorry, we're really sorry," one of the Twins gibbered, the other one nodding as he frantically looked round, his face falling even further when he realised that Hermione had manoeuvred herself in front of the exit.

"I. Don't. Care," Ron snarled through gritted teeth, as he stalked forward, his eyes never leaving his prey. The Twins shifted backwards towards her, until she arrested their movement with a gentle boot in the behind.

"Come on, Ron," Fred (maybe) said, an hysterical edge to his voice as he raised his hands placatingly. "You wouldn't kill us really," he chuckled.

George (possibly) nodded frantically. "Yes, just think of the difficulties of getting brain matter out of the carpet."

"Or telling Mum you've murdered two of her precious babies," Fred (perhaps) added.

"Precious babies, _precious babies_ …" That seemed to be the last straw for Ron. His fist snapped out, hitting the first twin smartly in the jaw, sending him reeling, Ron's knee slamming into his stomach leaving him slumping to the ground in a heap. The other twin tried to duck out of the way and help his brother at the same time, and Ron took advantage, slipping an arm around his neck into a sleeper hold.

"His face is going blue you know," Hermione pointed out a little while later. The Twin in question gurgled painfully.

"RIGHT, THAT'S IT," the seventh year roared, brandishing her wand, "GET OUT. GET. OUT."

The Twins seeing a golden opportunity for escape, dived for the portrait opening and bolted.

"Come on Ron," Hermione said, grabbing his arm, "no point hanging around, when we're so clearly not welcome."

"They pranked me," Ron said as they escaped to the library, " _they pranked me."_

Hermione sighed. "What did they do?"

"Pink foam," Ron almost looked ready to cry, "they filled the staircase with pink foam and…and I got trapped in it and…and I started to see things that weren't there…worse than spiders and and…"

Hallucinations? That was concerning. "Do you want to go and see Madam Pomfrey?" Hermione asked.

"Er…I…I'll be fine," Ron shook his head.

oOo

Professor Black's laughter was too loud and sharp in the awkward silence around the table, highlighting just how strained the otherwise festive atmosphere was.

Hermione sighed as she stabbed a roast parsnip with her fork; the sooner this was over the better. This was just…awkward. Actually, awkward didn't even begin to do it justice; everybody seemed to be waiting for something to explode. Professor Carrow was glaring at the festive trees which were currently looking rather eerie as the tree fairies were all hiding out of sight from the giant man.

Snape, for some reason, was glaring at McGonagall who was glaring right back; he also seemed to have a servo-skull hiding in his lap. Every so often brass tentacles would reach up the Potion Master's front almost as if the thing was looking for reassurance.

Sprout and Flitwick, on the other hand, seemed to be passing a bottle under the table. If that wasn't Fire-whisky, Hermione would eat her boots, with ketchup.

"Would any one like some more gravy?" Dumbledore smiled round the table as he held up the gravy boat. "No? It's a shame to let it go to waste…"

Beside her, Ron sighed heavily. "Do you think they'd notice if we slipped away," he muttered as the serving dishes of roast potatoes and brussel sprouts were suddenly replaced with mincemeat tarts, almond macaroons, iced ginger biscuits, and a huge Christmas pudding that had been carefully garnished with a sprig of holly.

"Probably," Hermione whispered back, "but it shouldn't be too long now." She winced as Professor Black began a loud conversation with the Twins, something about a flying bicycle.

It wasn't too long before the man's chair was transformed into a bright red tricycle only a little too small for Black, as he pedalled the contraption round the Great Hall, a huge grin on his face, cracker crown askew.

Pedalling back round the table he and the twins were soon busy customising the tricycle. "You know," Ron said, "I don't fancy any of this at all, it's all too sweet," he grimaced.

Hermione knew what he meant; more of Carrow's bad influence, her parents would be so proud. "There's a bowl of nuts over there," she suggested as the tricycle disappeared in a puff of purple smoke and a loud bang, "or we could just leave and stuff social convention," she conceded.

Ron leapt to his feet with a sigh of relief.

"Leaving so soon, Mr Weasley?" the Headmaster said from where he was watching Black and the Twins messing around with a second tricycle that still looked a little wooden and chair-like.

"Er…yes, sir, just feel the need for some fresh air," Hermione said.

"Ah well, Merry Christmas," he raised a glass of butter beer in toast.

"Happy Christmas to you too, sir," Hermione smiled as she backed away.

"Yeah, happy Christmas, sir," Ron said only a beat behind her as he sidled towards the doors.

They stormed up the main staircase, just as The Clock really got going with its displays of severed Ork heads and phantasmal blood.

"Sometimes," Ron grumbled as they hit the second floor landing, "I wish I'd just not got out of bed. Seriously, my idiot brothers…then too much heavy food…" he scowled, "it's just not healthy."

Hermione carefully hid her smirk, resisting the temptation to point out that not so long ago he'd have been the last to leave the table, determined to have second and even third helpings of whatever he could get his hands on.

She shook her head with a smile. "How about we grab our practise weapons, and go and see if Professor Carrow has escaped the feast too. I'm sure he'd let us use the duelling pit for a couple of hours."

Ron instantly perked up. "Yeah, bet he will, and then the day won't be a complete waste. Race you," he gave her a cheeky grin over his shoulder as he took off like a greyhound, long legs pounding up the staircase.

"Hey!" Hermione shouted, sprinting after him laughing.

To her surprise he didn't even notice when she collided into his back just in front of the Fat Lady."Ron…you alright," she started to ask, only to have him frantically shush her.

Peering round her friend, Hermione froze in horror. The Fat Lady was not alone…and that was definitely Hrothgar Snowmane, and they were…oh, that was just _revolting_ , even worse than that time those two sixth years had decided to make out in the corner of the Common room where everyone could see. McGonagall had been absolutely apoplectic.

Stepping around Ron, she sidled up to the painting. "Excuse me," she said, _"excuse me…_ "

The two portraits ignored her, far more interested in one another.

"Oh for Merlin's sake," Hermione snapped, giving the frame of the portrait a sharp with her knuckles, "you do know there are children present don't you," she glowered.

The Fat Lady looked at them over her shoulder with an annoyed sigh, as she attempted to hitch her chemise up to a more modest height, and failing miserably. "Hello darlings," she said rather breathlessly, "just having a little cuddle with my handsome Snowy-Bear," she cooed up at the semi-naked giant. Hrothgar's grumpiness at being interrupted dissolved into a mushy smile as he went back to his ministrations.

Hermione buried her face in her hands, frustrated beyond measure. "This…this is almost as bad as when I walked in on Mum and Dad last summer," Ron muttered behind her.

Oh, that was a mental image she so did not need right now. "It would be nice to be let in, you know," she said through gritted teeth as the Fat Lady giggled and sighed appreciatively.

"Third floor…under the west tower…there's a small chapel," Hrothgar looked up at them with a rougish grin.

"What?" Hermione was broken from her embarrassed reverie.

"The Chapel," Hrothgar gave her an amused smirk as the portrait swung open.

"Do you think we'll get some peace now?" the Fat Lady asked.

"Chapel?" Hermione mouthed at Ron as they climbed into the common room.

"The Chapel," Ron muttered back, face still brick red.

"Oh…the Chapel," Hermione said, thoroughly distracted.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Come in, come in…what can I do for you, Allesandor?" Dumbledore looked up from the paperwork littering his desk, doing his best to ignore the rustling as all the portraits behind suddenly found better places to be, just in time to see a large hand put down a small globe like object in the middle of it all.

He blinked in surprise; was that what he thought it was? He looked up at Carrow, a question on his lips.

"You may remove the guard in the Department of Mysteries now," Carrow rumbled as he strolled towards the windows, carefully avoiding all the small tables with their delicate burdens. "That is the prophesy pertaining to myself and the… _Dark Lord_."

Dumbledore stared at the prophecy globe where it sat in the middle of his desk; it looked so unassuming. That it had caused so much trouble, pain and suffering…

"I do believe," Carrow boomed, "that it would be best for it to be destroyed."

Dumbledore relaxed back in his chair, watching Carrow carefully as the large man gazed out the window, taking in the fresh fall of snow, seeming almost as remote as the mountains that rose up in the distance. "I must admit I'm rather surprised that you haven't already," Dumbledore said.

"And have you concerned about its sudden disappearance? No, you might have resorted to doing something foolish," Carrow said as he made his way back, coming to loom over the desk once more. Picking the prophesy globe up once more, he placed it on the floor. There was a small shriek and whisper as his considerable bulk came down on the fragile glass, crushing it into dust on the stone flags.

"There," Carrow rumbled in satisfaction, "'tis done."

Dumbledore heaved a sigh; at least that was one less thing for him to worry about, he supposed. "Could I persuade you stay for a cup of tea," he smiled up at Carrow.

"You will lift the guard in the corridor?" Carrow asked, though it sounded more like a command.

Dumbledore paused; should he? There were so many things going on here, not just the fact that Voldemort was back even in a twisted fashion, but also reassuring the Order that he…they were doing something…able to do something…

"You do not understand," Carrow growled, obviously frustrated, "this is so far beyond your experience…if only I could show you…"

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, expression sombre, lost in thought, before…"I have an idea," he smiled as he leapt up from his chair, bustling over to the cabinet in the corner of his office. Opening it, he gently lifted out his most prized procession, a pensive. Carrying it over to his desk, he placed it gently in the middle. "How about you demonstrate what you mean with a memory," he smiled up at Carrow.

The giant man stared back at him suspiciously.

"Maybe I should demonstrate," Dumbledore said. Pulling out his wand he put it to his temple, eyes closed, silent for a moment, before pulling it away trailing a long silver filament the Headmaster quickly dropped in the bowl.

The strand pooled in the bottom of the bowl forming an oddly misty silver puddle, shimmering, not quite there. "This," Dumbledore smiled up at him, "is a memory…of an event I'm sure you remember yourself. Now…to view it all we have to do is touch the surface with our noses like so…" he demonstrated.

The memory took hold, pulling him down into an event that had happened barely five years ago. It seemed like an eternity he sighed as he looked round the Great Hall taking in the festive atmosphere, the banners bright and cheerful, the returning students, the members of the faculty at the High Table, refreshed from their summer holidays, all eager for the year to come…it was all so, so…innocent seeming. He sighed heavily; hopefully Carrow would follow before the memory got too far…

…Carrow abruptly appeared, looking distinctly unhappy and suspicious as he glared around at the scene he found before him.

"It's about to start," Dumbledore hushed him before he could start objecting.

As if on cue, in through the doors marched Professor McGonagall. Behind her, nervous and uncertain followed a trail of first years in their plain black robes looking ridiculously small. It always startled him every year just how small the first years were.

A familiar head of bushy hair caught his attention, a much younger Granger, who was practically vibrating with eagerness, so different from the grim and serious young lady she was becoming…Longbottom looking bizarrely uncertain and afraid, and not a bear…Ronald, one of the tallest of the group of potential first years, looking around fearfully, something so uncharacteristic of him now, and beside him…Dumbledore turned to find Carrow staring at him, expression…to be honest he wasn't sure, so he nodded and smiled at him encouragingly.

Carrow stalked over to stand beside his younger self, a distinctly odd and unsettling contrast. Young Harry was tiny next to his adult self, a skinny little thing, his appearance dominated by a shock of tousled black hair and ugly glasses.

"You were neither as happy or as well nourished as I would have liked," Dumbledore said by his elbow, "but you were whole, and obviously resilient. You had even managed to make some friends on the train…I still feel guilty, feel I should have done more for you considering what happened afterwards," he smiled sadly, "but there's one thing about hindsight, it never needs glasses."

Carrow turned back to the sorting just as McGonagall called on "Bones, Susan," a small red-haired girl with pigtails sidling up to the stool and sitting down, fidgeting nervously.

They watched in silence together until finally McGonagall called for "Potter, Harry." Young Harry scurried up to the three legged stool and plonked himself down, nervously chewing his lip as McGonagall gently settled the sorting hat on his head.

"One of the longest sortings in quite a while, that I remember," Dumbledore commented as young Harry fidgeted on the stool as if he were having a silent and intense disagreement with something.

The hat eventually bellowed "GRYFFINDOR." Pulling off the tatty old hat, relief all over his face, Young Harry trotted off to his new home, the Gryffindor students typically over reacting. Interestingly, it wasn't just the Weasley twins dancing on the table; Dumbledore chuckled to himself as he watched the impromptu jig spread down the table, much to Minerva's acute annoyance.

The Great Hall faded away and they landed back in the Headmaster's office. Dumbledore sighed in relief, that didn't seem to have gone too badly. Clearing the pensive, he smiled hopefully up at Carrow.

The man seemed lost in thought, as remote as a mountain. "I would like to show you a memory," he finally said, mind apparently made up.

Dumbledore nodded almost in shock as he cleared the pensive. "Wonderful! If you would think clearly of the memory, I will remove it for you." Carrow even lowered his head for ease of access. Surely this was going a little too easily

The memory pooled at the bottom of the pensive in a mercury-like puddle. He hoped he was doing the right thing here; Carrow could be about to show him _anything_. Hiding his concerns, Dumbledore smiled up at Carrow. "Shall we?" He gestured towards the pensive. The giant man nodded, eyes watchful. Steeling himself, the Headmaster lowered his nose into the memory…

…to find himself abruptly standing on some sort of wide veranda or balcony, so large in fact, that it was able to accommodate a sort of muggle aircraft, ugly and ungraceful looking, crouching like some predatory hunter ready to pounce.

Behind, the enormous bulk of the building reared up, seemingly to scrape the very clouds, an ugly and aggressive mixture of classical architectural details heavily abused and liberally sprinkled with statues in way that even Carrow would consider ostentatious. The entrance onto the balcony was barely visible in among all the architectural decoration.

Backing away, Dumbledore found himself by the balustrade and very much against his better judgement, he looked over to find himself staring down into a dizzying chasm between surrounding buildings, criss-crossed with bridges and walkways of all kinds, tiny vehicles and dots that could only be people teeming across, dropping away into the darkness where the presence of lights suggested human activity somewhere down in the deeps.

Blocky vehicles of varying sizes, some ostentatiously decorated in gold and even jewels, roared overhead and between the buildings. The air smelt stale despite a small breeze, tainted by chemicals that stung the nostrils.

As for the buildings themselves, they marched away in every direction he could see through the built chaos, huge monolithic structures covered with sculptures and paintings in decorative frenzy much like the one he currently stood on. He chuckled to himself, feeling slightly hysterical. This explained so much about Carrow, an entire culture of people dedicated to twiddly bits…but it was all so overwhelming…

To his intense relief, Carrow made his appearance on the balcony, gazing around, apparently quite at home and relaxed with the hellish, smelly, over ornamented chaos they were currently lost in.

"Where are we?" he asked, nearly ducking as a vehicle roared overhead. "Is this one of the worlds you've told us about?"

Carrow gave him a strange look. "This is Holy Terra, birthplace of Humanity." He gazed around seeming almost nostalgic, oblivious to the bombshell he'd just dropped. This was _Earth_? Dumbledore looked around utterly stricken. Something truly awful must have happened…

"This is one of the few clear childhood memories I have," Carrow carried on oblivious, "my very last moments as a child on the planet of my birth."

Dumbledore started to ask a question, changed his mind, and thought of something more relevant as Carrow strolled over to one of the grotesque gargoyles that sat along the balustrade at intervals. Standing in its shadow was a slight figure clad in a simple brown robe and sensible boots, achingly familiar shaggy hair and glasses, a young Harry standing at the balustrade, drinking in the view, his last look, for who knew how long, of the planet he had known for his entire life.

"Where were you going to go?" Dumbledore finally asked, feeling rather stupid almost at once.

Carrow didn't seem to take offence, though. "The craft over there," he nodded to the squat and ugly vehicle at the other end of the area, "that's the shuttle of my adoptive father, and up there, above the atmosphere," he pointed up towards the grey sullen sky, "my father had a ship, a frigate, small but deceptively fast craft for her class. For the next year Terran standard, I would be a very small part of Inquisitor Arturus Carrow's retinue."

Dumbledore stared at the small boy who had now climbed up so he was hanging over the balustrade in typically fearless Potter fashion. Considering the sheer scale of the drop, the desire to rush over and grab the back of his robe was almost overwhelming.

The sound of heavy boots on the expensive marble flags rang out, as a group of heavily armed people marched out onto the veranda, some of them dressed in sludge green garments very similar to those the Defence Club seemed ridiculously fond of, their weapons, blocky guns, ugly and efficient looking things, blades strapped at their waists. Heavily scarred, many with prosthetics, they were hard and brutally efficient looking as they fanned out in a protective formation around the vehicle that crouched there. Mercenaries maybe, Dumbledore thought.

" _This_ is the reason why I decided to allow you to see this…memory," Carrow murmured.

Behind the probable mercenaries came a woman clad all in black, her face obscured by a mask fashioned to resemble a skull, its eyes glowing a baleful red. Something about the way she walked, watchful and stalking, made Dumbledore want to keep as far away from her as he could manage.

Behind her a trio of figures emerged, a tall hunched looking figure, its ungainly and asymmetrical shape shrouded in red robes trimmed with a black and yellow checkerboard edging, multiple green lights glowing beneath the hood. Its unsettling appearance was not helped by its silent gliding motion.

The tall broad man on the other hand seemed almost normal by comparison. Dressed in ugly black armour, his cloak swept back over his shoulder, most of his face had been replaced by a metal plate that had been delicately engraved, the surrounding tissue a mess of twisted red scars that spoke of some old catastrophic injury.

But between them…Dumbledore blinked. The word festooned came to mind. Dressed in an elaborate velvet trimmed leather jacket and britches, the man cut an ostentatious figure, from his carefully powdered face and painted lips to his towering jewelled wig. The man even had what looked like live spiders in the transparent platform soles of his shoes. Mincing along with a cane, the over-dressed dandy seemed to be searching for something.

"Allesandor, come," the man called, his voice cold and aristocratic. Dumbledore turned in time to see young Harry scramble down from the balustrade and go trotting across the area to this richly attired individual.

It was curious, despite the apparent fop Inquisitor Arcturus Carrow was…there was a hardness to the man, his face hard and pinched behind the caked on powder, his eyes hard and cruel…steel grey…and there was something else, something deep in that calculating lizard gaze…something wrong and twisted and hungry…oh so hungry, devouring everything in its path…Dumbledore jerked back on horror, more afraid than he had ever been in his life, cold sweat trickling down his spine.

"That was him, my father, Inquisitor Arturus Carrow," Carrow said, "he raised me, for a while, changed me irrevocably and then…" he paused, "I have never been able to decide whether giving me to the Charnel Guard as an initiate was his attempt to save me, or have me as a plant within the Chapter."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Never heard of this place before," Wulfric gave the brief a dubious look, "are you sure about this?"

"As sure as I can be," Timothy said as he gave his equipment a last once over, "it's not unheard of for muggleborns to take over an unused building in the non-magical world and re-task it to their purposes. They're all over the place, little enclaves, too small for the Ministry to take anything but the remotest interest in. This one's in Birmingham," he said as he gave his Browning one last check over before holstering it.

"Percy went and checked it out for me," he continued, "it looks like a semi-derelict Victorian warehouse from the outside, but inside, they've apparently divided it up into lots. People have got businesses going. They've even got flats and stuff."

Wulfric grimaced. "Oh, that's not going to be good, lots of witnesses and disruption…"

Timothy shrugged as he surveyed the rest of his team, who looked as if they would have appreciated a few more hours sleep, but were making the best of it. It even appeared as if Chuddy was managing to sneak in a few extra winks while standing up.

"It's just a chance we're going to have to take. Fortunately, our target has a separate ground-floor entrance, and this early in the morning…it's as good as we're going to get, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't exercise as much caution as possible."

"So why this one, again?" Wulfric asked, obviously unhappy about being up at three in the morning.

"We ruled out or eliminated the other suppliers of that lab. All we're going to do is sneak in, copy all their paper work and order records and stuff and sneak back out," Timothy scowled as he rooted around in the pocket of his great-coat. "Honestly, Wulfric, if you want to go back to bed, just go."

Wulfric reared back as if he'd been slapped, much to the amusement of the others. "Let you go into an unknown situation without me? Hell, _no_. You'd probably come back missing an arm or leg or something."

Pulling out the enchanted ring of rope, Timothy refused to dignify Wulfric's ridiculous fussing with an answer. "Grab hold," he snapped, proffering the object to the team.

"A port-key, yay," Athena muttered as she touched the thing.

oOo

The snivelling piece of slime, one Martin "Marty" Cuthbert Stewart, from the Department for Muggle Relations had been very helpful and cooperative once the correct pressure and mental conditioning had been applied.

Thanks to his gambling debts, he'd had his fingers in all sorts of pies including, at first, the Department's coffers, and then as he had become more desperate he'd begun to thieve items to sell, office equipment, everything from bottles of ink and rolls of parchment to actual office furniture. He'd even taken some of the less obvious and more portable sculptures that littered the place, and then of course, things had become so bad for the foolish man that he'd been forced to become a courier of sorts for various Knockturn lowlifes.

After the most recent session of interrogation, he had left the little slime gibbering while sitting in a puddle of his own urine with strict instructions to rethink his outlook on life and to contemplate the stain on his immortal soul. He had a feeling it wouldn't be long before the little slime stood before the God-Emperor in judgement.

So now he was on a small mission, to retrieve Ministerial property from this Fox character. He wasn't expecting trouble, but still; he glanced down at the goblin made armour he wore, specially blacked for more discrete operations, added to that his sword and pistol, and he felt properly equipped. He'd put his great-coat over the top to give him a more everyday casual look; he didn't want to attract too much attention now did he?

"Erm…Boss," one of the volunteers for this evening's mission piped up, Caroline most likely, hidden as she was behind her golden skull mask, "how are we getting to where we're er…going?"

"Follow me…and hang on," Carrow growled distractedly as he opened up the way to their target, following the little slime's memories of apparating there. Stepping forward, he strode towards their destination, pulling the unhappy trio of vampires along with him.

The warehouse was much as the little slime had remembered. Brick built and sturdy, it wouldn't have looked that out of place on many of the worlds he'd visited, though it appeared to be derelict, or pretending to be at least considering the lit windows. He frowned as he looked round, open land, cracked tarmac and concrete littered with elder trees and buddleias. A canal ran alongside, inky black and silent.

Beyond lay the orange lights of a city, the hum of traffic clearly audible despite the lateness of the hour.

"Come," he ordered as he strode towards the target, taking in all the possible entrances and exits…only to find himself alone. With an annoyed snarl he turned to find the three vampires Caroline, Annie and Methuselah…indisposed.

Caroline was the best off of the three as she hovered next to Annie who was hunkered over and retching, her face mask slid up out of the way.

"I'm really sorry, sir but…but I don't think that way of travelling really…really suits us…at all. Could we keep to port-keys…like normal…please?" Caroline looked up at him, tension in every line of her body. Methuselah groaned in agreement from where he had slumped to the ground nearby, rocking back and forth as he muttered prayers.

"I apologise," Carrow shifted uncomfortably, "I should have warned you of the challenging nature of my method. We will find an alternate method for your return."

The two ladies seemed to find this acceptable. Pulling Methuselah to his feet, they trailed after him as he cautiously circumnavigated the building, admiring the architecture while looking for a suitable point of entrance.

oOo

The canal glittered orange before them as they landed on a brick paved tow-path lined with buddleias and barren looking elder bushes. Beyond stretched the lights of the city, a faint hum of traffic audible, even this early in the morning.

Did the non-magical world ever sleep? Don't be silly, Timothy reprimanded himself, it was probably all delivery lorries, people on early shifts, and things like that at this time of night.

The warehouse itself did look semi-derelict, though some of the windows appeared to be lit up. Something odd was going on here; Timothy moved his head slowly back and forth as he squinted up at the looming building. One second the windows were broken, boarded up, or empty gaping holes, and now they were whole, some showing signs of life.

"Boss, you all right?" Chuddy muttered in concern from where he squatted next to a sizeable buddleia.

"Yes…yes, of course. What do you see?" Timothy said quietly. _"What do you see?"_

Chuddy was silent for a moment. "Great big ruddy old warehouse, with some of the windows boarded up. Doesn't look like anyone's home…but if magic's involved, that don't mean much."

"Someone's got an illuminated star in their window," Hecate said. The others stared at her. "Just saying," she shrugged.

Huh, one heck of a muggle repelling ward; Timothy looked up at the building with renewed appreciation. Seemed it was mixed with a more general warding scheme too, which was kind of suspicious. Were people trying to hide illegal activities, or did they just hate the Ministry and the Magical mainstream that much?

So what else had they set up? Timothy pulled out his wand and began investigating, ignoring the exasperated sighs from behind him; best to take some time rather than walk into an intestine expelling ward.

"Okay…I think the muggle-repelling ward extends out to this fence," he said indicating the sad line of posts that were attempting to hold up the ivy draped chain-link. "There doesn't appear to be anything more dangerous…all right, Wulfric, Hecate grab a non-magical and we'll lead them over," Timothy said, grabbing Chuddy's hand as he did so. Chuddy almost protested, but gritted his teeth and allowed himself to be led through a nettle infested gap as he kept his eyes tightly shut.

"Oh...oh," he exclaimed as they arrived on the other side of the ward, "it's not boarded up now."

Timothy almost smirked as they made their way round the warehouse to a raised up steel roller shutter that was obviously the entrance to a delivery bay of some sort. Next to it was a fire door, steps complete with bright red safety rail.

"They're complying with building regs," Athena pointed out as Chuddy cautiously made his way up the steps to check the door out.

"All good, boss," Cuddy muttered after his careful examination of the door.

Swiftly they got into position, Chuddy crammed into place on one side of the door, Timothy, Juno and the rest crouched on the steps, weapons ready as Wulfric cast a vanishing charm on the bright red steel door.

As the door disappeared, they poured in, splitting up into pre-ordained groups as they explored the space beyond.

A delivery bay served by the large roller shutter, behind which was a large empty space of cracked concrete floor. Beyond, the space had been filled with large industrial racks, steel framed the shelves formed by pallets. The shelves themselves…Timothy turned on the spot, taking in the multitude of strange bubble-wrapped shapes and boxes looming out of the dark, rammed and stuffed on the shelving wherever they would fit.

There were even several pallets of boxes and even wooden crates at one end. One of them had an orange pump-truck stuck under it ready for use. From the smell there were a certain amount of potions ingredients being stored here. What, Timothy had no idea, but he doubted they were all entirely legal.

Wulfric came round a stack of shrink wrapped boxes, Chuddy trailing in his wake, obviously uncomfortable as he glared into the shadows among the oddly shaped packages.

"Anything?" Timothy muttered.

Wulfric shook his head.

Sighing, Timothy moved cautiously to the small and extremely flimsy looking door that led deeper into the building. All they needed to do was find where the records were kept. Accounts, orders, anything really, so they could duplicate them and see if they could piece anymore together of this Dark Lady…or find some of her actual followers instead of the people she farmed stuff onto. Blasted sub-contracting muggle tendencies. Did anyone work for her directly?

They'd got vague mutterings of a small group with the symbol of Saturn tattooed on their wrists, but there were so many strange little groups like that round the Knockturn area, disgruntled, disenfranchised people looking for a little power and payback.

He checked the others as he reached for the door handle. It was almost scary the way they were turning into such a well oiled machine. It was obviously Carrow's fault.

oOo

A steel security door was easily pried from its frame, to reveal…Carrow ground his teeth in frustration as he heaved himself along the small corridor cursing ancient humanity and their stunted proportions. To his relief, things did improve a little after an agonisingly small doorway he had to contort himself through in a most undignified way that the vampires endeavoured to ignore.

Painted bricks, thick with white gloss, cast iron pillars, brick barrel vaulted ceiling, a staircase that wound upwards, narrow and not at all inviting.

"We can check up there, Boss," Annie said in an almost conciliatory tone.

Carrow gave the stairs a nasty glare; he would not be defeated by mere architecture; now to find the lair of the dealer in stolen office equipment. He glared round at the various doors that were poked into odd places. Obviously this hadn't been the original configuration of the warehouse's interior, its new residents' requirements leading to a series of awkward compromises.

Beside him, the vampires spread out, ghosting around pillars as they peered into odd shaped corners and listened at doors.

"I do believe I have found it," Methuselah piped up, looking slightly more himself, "Renard logistics." He pointed to a plain grey door someone had attached a crude sign to, little more than a piece of plywood decorated by someone of questionable artistic abilities.

Doing his best to hide his frustration, Carrow made his way over, sliding as best he could between the cast iron columns.

"Renard Logistics," he read out, "You've got it? We'll shift it!"

Carrow glared at the door. It proved to be locked, so he shouldered the flimsy thing out of the way as quietly as he could, shoving his way through, plasma pistol at the ready. If he was right about this, then they should discover at least a three months supply of parchment, four desks, a number of filing cabinets, not to mention the suddenly disappeared objets d'art.

Some sort of work area, Carrow glared round at the room as the vampires fanned out around him, a long work bench was set against one wall and there was racking stuffed with all sorts of packaging brown paper and bubble wrap lined envelopes to collapsed cardboard boxes. Mail order business, maybe; he took in the row of perches above, each with its little dish holder for water, owl order too it seemed. Several doors, one of them in a glass screen wall that lead further into the building, its textured glass panels dark in the peeling worn wooden frame.

The place was truly uninspiring, nothing but a shabby working space and an office; he poked one of the flimsy door open, filled with box files and paperwork waiting for attention…

"Who…who," a male voice blurted out doing a passable imitation of an owl, "who are you? We're…we're closed…we're…we're…"

Carrow turned to find a short man in plain robes, glasses perched on his nose, staring down the barrel of Annie's gun, his eyes wide as a bead of sweat made its way down his temple. Behind one of the doors was open leading into a small office. It was almost impressive that this unimpressive scrap of humanity had managed to hide quite so thoroughly from them.

The little man's eyes flicked to him and then back to the weapon as he shuffled backwards until he could go no further, fumbling at his robes in a seemingly nervous gesture. Or maybe he was activating a panic alarm or alert of some kind. Carrow tensed, stalking forward.

A crack of aparition confirmed his suspicions. Gesturing to the vampires to take cover, he dived for the space beside the main door, pistol ready.

"Pete, you okay?" a female voice called. The owner of the voice paused in the doorway. "What the hell…GET AWAY FROM HIM! HE'S DONE NOTHING…"

Carrow watched in amusement as the not particularly tall woman stormed into the room, her robes flapping around her jean legs, plait bouncing angrily on her back as she stomped up to this Pete and shoved herself forcibly in between him and Annie, not once breaking the flow of her rant. If looks could kill the glare she levelled at the vampire would have caused her to burst into flames. And that was what you got for freezing. He almost smirked at Annie's obvious annoyance and embarrassment as she tried to lean away from the short and extremely angry woman as she raged and shouted.

"…AND AS FOR YOU, YOU OVERGROWN LUMP, YOU'RE NOT EVEN AN AUROR, SO HOW IS THIS EVEN LEGAL?"

Carrow scowled in annoyance. Of course this was legal, he was doing this in the name of the God-Emperor, for the good of humanity, no matter how small the action…

There was movement on the other side of the glass screen wall. Without a thought he charged forward…

oOo

There was a distant sound almost of splintering wood. He shared a look with Wulfric, "did you hear what I heard…"

Muffled voices, followed soon after by shouting, angry, frightened shouting. Timothy shared horrified looks with Wulfric, grabbing the door handle and wrenching it open, indicating to the others they should stay put.

"Is that supposed to happen?" he heard Hecate ask as he stormed down the corridor on the other side, his browning held at the ready. This was bad, this was very bad.

The shouting had resolved into a female voice, angry and frightened as it bellowed at something unseen, vague shapes visible through the glass panelled screen that formed the corridor wall, the brown paint peeling at the edges. He slowed to a halt, maybe he'd been a little hasty. Maybe someone had just dropped something a little _exciting_. Heavens knows there must be plenty of opportunities in a place like this, all they needed was someone to try juggling an erumpet horn or something, but in case it wasn't…maybe they should retreat, leave as if they'd never been there…

He began to back away…with a thunderous crash, the glass screen exploded behind him. Whirling, Timothy, browning at the ready, came face to face with the largest pistol he had ever seen, a pistol that was horribly familiar.

Icy green eyes stared back at him as he did his best not to flinch or waver. Seemingly satisfied, the plasma pistol withdrew. Carrow smirked down at him, his smile broadening as he took in Wulfric and the other members of Timothy's retinue as they stood at the other end of the corridor weapons ready.

"I am taking it," Carrow rumbled, "that you are not investigating corrupt accounting and bribery within the Department of Muggle relations, not to mention the theft of Ministry property."

"Ah, no," Timothy said as he tried to get his heart rate under control, "no, we were following up a lead from…"

"Sir? Oh, hello Timothy," Caroline said as she leaned around the ruined edges of the glass screen. She was about to say more, but was abruptly shouldered out of the way by a shorter woman, who crunched angrily through the broken glass in heavy boots, her open robe flapping around her jean clad legs.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" she snarled pointing an angry finger at Timothy, "wait a minute, you're the Giant Weed's little friend, aren't you?" Glaring over his shoulder, she snarled in disbelief, "oh for _fuck's_ _sake_. What is this? Does it look like I've got a revolving door or something? What the hell are you lot here for anyway?"

"Stolen office furniture," Carrow rumbled.

The small angry lady gave him a sarcastic look. "Seriously, was that all you could come up with? What about you? Any stupid excuses?"

"A possible dark lady," Timothy glared back determined not to back down. If he didn't let Carrow get to him, he certainly wasn't going to let someone who barely came up to Carrow's waist succeed. The angry lady gave him a puzzled frown and a questioning shrug. Carrow, on the other hand, cocked his head, clearly interested.

"Curly horns from an experiment that went wrong...farms her dirty work out to other people," Timothy explained, "possibly has a group of nutty followers stealing victims for her in the Kockturn area…"

The angry lady frowned. "Oh, _her,_ " she sneered. "I'm not associated with her, I'll have you know…acquired some stuff for her once. Never doing _that_ again. The bitch never paid for her goods so I withheld them, and then of course, she got nasty…"

"You're the Fox," Carrow stated behind them.

The woman, the Fox, rolled her eyes. "Well yes, bit slow aren't you," she sneered over her shoulder at Carrow.

"I was going to retrieve all the stolen office equipment and leave it in the thief's office when he wasn't looking, make an artful pile of it beside his desk," Carrow smirked at them.

Timothy narrowed his eyes. "What did you acquire for her?"

The Fox shrugged with a huff. "Just some…what do you call them, like blank ward stones or something? I highly doubt she was going to use them for wards, though."

"What else?" Carrow asked in a rumbling murmur.

"That was it," the Fox grimaced, "seriously. The whole business was such a can of shit I'm just not going there."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

 _* wiki/Ecclesiarchy_Quotes, Warhammer 40,000 2_ _nd_ _edition rulebook, p70._

 _**Black Medicine: The Dark Art of Death by N. Mashiro, Ph.D. (1978), p17-19._

 _*** Black Medicine: The Dark Art of Death by N. Mashiro, Ph.D. (1978), p22._


	7. Chapter 7

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

My poor beta Jacobus-minoris is currently not very well with a nasty stomach bug, so this chapter isn't as well edited as it might be. I've tried to do what I can, but still…

I would like to say a huge thank-you to a relative who braved my handwriting and typed up ten pages of my scrawl .

* * *

 **Author's Note**

Right, this is the beta-ed reupload. Thanks to all the people who pointed out the bit that was just notes. Editing just really isn't my strong point at all. Anyway Jacobus-Minoris has been through it now and worked his usual magic, so hopefully this will be much better...

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

"Do you want another drink, Snack?"

Sirius gave the dainty female vampire a sickly smile, trying to make his edging away as unobtrusive as possible. "Ah, no, no …I'm err ….I'm fine, thanks…"

She nodded and smiled. "Have you put your name down for a fight yet?"she said, tilting her head.

"No, no it's ….it's fine," Sirius swallowed nervously, his mind whirling in panic. He did his best, smiling at the vampire, but it must have come out wrong because she raised her eyebrows.

"Well, if you're sure…the list is over by the buffet."

He sagged in relief as she retreated back to her dark-haired friend. How in Merlin's saggy balls had he allowed his darling dinky godson to talk him into this madness? There was his own harrowing experience, which he still had nightmares about, but there _were_ rumours and he _had_ been warned about Carrow's New Year parties, but this was …..his eyes roved around the large room, with its sunken duelling pit surrounded by a milling crowd dressed in …his eyes boggled slightly as the dark-haired vampire strolled past wearing very small shorts, a little sort of top ….and then she'd thrown a shimmering purple and silver open fronted robe over the top; the fact that she was sweaty and had someone else's blood splattered across her front wasn't helping matters.

Across the duelling pit hung elaborate gilded cages containing- Sirius groaned- the vampires' buffet, and from the looks of it he'd got off very lightly with the whole gold lame thong thing.

The normal human(ish) buffet wasn't much better. He'd had a look, but …he shuddered to himself.

Snape of all people was currently sparring someone in a flurry of spell light, strange movement and hastily conjured random objects. The man was still covered in gore from taking on a full grown acromantula with nothing but a sword. Sirius had made a mental note after witnessing the brutality to avoid the Potions master, even more in the future because obviously Carrow was contagious in some way. So, yes, Snape had been a bastard and he'd been, yeah, immature or something, but he'd only been a bastard in a normal sort of way, but now…now he kept grinning despite being surrounded by murderous nut-jobs.

Sirius shuddered as a particularly nasty mustard yellow curse thwipped past mere inches away from Snape's face. Oh yeah, the infamous blood-to-acid hex, how he'd loved having that chucked at him as a very junior Auror on bottom scraping duty on the weekends in Knockturn. It was also illegal, five years in Azkaban if he remembered rightly.

Carrow … he peered over at where the giant bastard was holding court among the floating sofa thingies, swathed in ridiculous cloth-of-gold robes. Typical, obviously totally not bothered by the legalities or otherwise of people tossing dark curses at one another for fun and giggles. Suddenly, the giant man rose, striding confidently towards the fighting pit, discarding the flashy brocade robe.

Oh ….looked like Snape had finished his fight then, and still had all his limbs attached. Shame. Best to make himself scarce before old Snivelly could grab him and force him into the ring himself.

A great cheer went up as Carrow leapt down into the pit, a grinding clank signalling the release of some creature or other. Now the monster was occupied, he sidled over to the buffet, doing a detour around Carrow's equally crazy secretary who was talking to…was that a _muggle_? Certainly, the funny shorts and ugly jumper were a bit of a giveaway, not to mention the brown socks with sandals. Not even the most taste challenged wizard would dress like that.

He caught snippets of their conversation as he passed "… _new addition to the property_ …" "… _authenticity…_ " Seemed the short man was objecting to Carrow's wall paintings and other decorative additions. Apparently they should look …new. Sirius shook his head at the inexplicable argument.

Yep, the buffet still looked inedible, some of it quite obviously meant for vampires or people who didn't mind their food extra rare and possibly still moving. Ooh, sandwiches, they'd got to be safe, hadn't they, lettuce and something and small meat pies.

" _Hey, hey"._

He looked round at the oddly familiar voice.

" _Oi, Padfoot, over here, you smelly old dog!"_

Sirius looked round in surprise, his eyes widening in shock as he took in the portrait of the last people he'd expected to see. Ensconced in their flower festooned portrait, James and Lily waved to him, delighted smiles on their faces.

"Sirius, it's wonderful to see you again," Lily sighed happily, almost tearful.

"You're looking good," James winked at him, "sooooo, found a nice chick to …." Lily elbowed him in the ribs, hard. A hard lump rising in his throat, Sirius smiled at these shadows of two of his most favourite people in the world. How he missed them still.

"Seriously, how are you doing?" James asked a little anxiously.

"Er...I'm fine. Yeah, I've done up the old family home, and I've been helping Remus with his teaching, you know," he shrugged, "when he needs it." James nodded in understanding.

"Teaching," Lily said.

"Yeah, History of Magic at Hogwarts," Sirius nodded. "That's wonderful", Lily looked close to tears of happiness, James grinning cheerfully beside her.

"Yeah, and err … I've even taken up the family seat on the Wizengamot," he admitted.

James seemed floored for a moment. "Politics, _you_?" he squeaked.

"Yeah, well," Sirius grimaced, embarrassed, "it's a bit sink or swim with my darling little Godson ripping through the Ministry like a rabid Hippogriff." He glared darkly at the fighting pit where Carrow was currently engaged in a fist fight with a full grown mountain troll. Disturbingly, he seemed to be winning.

"I worry about him too", Lily said.

Sirius stared at her uncomprehending for a moment. Obviously being a portrait turned you mad after a while; just look at Mumsie darling.

"Padfoot, will you look after our little bambi for us?" Lily asked, leaning forward to peer up at him. He glanced back at the fighting pit. Carrow had managed to get the troll in a one-armed neck lock, and was now punching it repeatedly in the face, his expression a terrifying mask of manic pleasure. "Sirius?" Lily peered up at him anxiously.

"Er, sure, sure," Sirius sagged in resignation, "course I'll look out for him."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The fog blanketed everything, the air still and cool, the distant sound of traffic muffled, dew clinging to the spider webs that draped the naked bushes and evergreen foliage.

For the first time in weeks, Timothy felt himself relax a little. There was just something so peaceful, trapped in his little bubble of visibility, the rest of the world full of its troubles cut off temporarily. Heck, he'd even managed to persuade Wulfric that he'd be quite safe collecting his Sunday paper all by himself, thank-you very much.

Pausing a moment, he lit a Black Russian, taking a deep drag, the tip of the cigarette like a firefly in the soft grey gloom. At least for a moment he could honestly say he felt at peace, almost content, which was nice considering he was going to have to sit through one of the Lump's "meetings" in a bit. No doubt he would end up piled up to his eyeballs in even more work.

A growing rumble split the soft silence as a blue smear of light rose from the airstrip, ascending on a pillar of fire as it made its way up and out of the atmosphere, finally disappearing as the shuttle gained Earth orbit, its first step in its trip to the Moon and the small scientific outpost that was being set up there. Timothy watched it go; one day he'd find an excuse to go up there himself, the reports that kept landing across his desk were intriguing. But until then…he shook his head, back to the diamond coated grindstone of life.

A lanky youth clad in a downtrodden tracksuit careened out of the mist, colliding into him in a mess of limbs. Eyes wide, face pale, the lad nearly screamed, falling over his own feet, before stumbling back the way he'd come.

Well, how _rude_. Okay, this was his second best, nearly third best dolman and his great coat had clearly got a bullet hole in it, his cap was the one he'd had to rescue from Artemis, heavily _reparoed_ , and he needed a haircut, so he really wasn't looking his best, but he didn't look that terrible…or even particularly intimidating even.

Maybe the lad had taken something he shouldn't have and was having an adverse reaction to it. There were enough highly dubious potions washing around the town for this to be entirely feasible. The Aurors would have a field day if they were let loose on the place. Maybe they could lure some away from the Ministry, see who was sympathetic to the Hollow's unique and delicate balance. Challenges, challenges, and frankly something he suspected wasn't going to be his problem in the end. He hoped.

An oddly parked car emerged out of the mist, the driver's door hanging open. Behind it sat a police car, lights flashing as two officers stood talking to the lanky tracksuit wearing youth who was now sporting handcuffs. Sullen and silent, he glanced around only to scream, dive between the Police officers and into their patrol car.

Timothy glared, before schooling his expression into a neutral mask. "Good morning," he said stiffly to the Police officers as he walked past, back ramrod straight.

oOo

"Ready for the moment of truth?" the God-Emperor grinned up at Arithmancer Lettice Strange from where he was crouched fiddling with the guts of the holographic display table. It was literally a table; someone had found it in a second hand shop, just a cheap and unloved Victorian thing with rather ugly turned legs. He'd had to cut a hole in the top to allow the projection apparatus to be installed in a scramble of wires, circuit boards and rune engraved crystals underneath.

"I've been waiting for this for years," Arithmancer Strange smiled as she worked at a data-slate. "Right, I think we're ready this end, so whenever it decides to work…"

"Yep, I think I've got it," the God-Emperor muttered, "if I just…"

The holographic display spluttered into life, illuminating the laboratory with a soft green light.

"That's better," Arithmancer Strange said, as she got to work. Soon a slightly fuzzy and transparent representation of the Earth was spinning above the surface of the table, the familiar continents and oceans criss-crossed with a lace-like network of glowing lines.

"Oooh, that's interesting," Strange said as she leaned forward for a closer look. Tweaking the controls, she enlarged the image. "We have to remember of course that this is only four or five months worth of data from the satellites, so we really can't draw any definitive conclusions from it…but still…"

oOo

Wulfric only just managed to dodge the snapping teeth as Artemis lunged at him, growling, her ears flattened back against her skull. Retreating, he joined Timothy behind one of the many heavily turned and carved sofas that lived in the Long Gallery. At some point Timothy had naively suggested to one of the English Heritage people that maybe they should get it reupholstered; the red velvet was looking terribly shabby and the gold fringing was beginning to unravel in places. The English Heritage person had had what looked like a small panic attack and had to be sat down and plied with glasses of water and chocolate digestives.

"Whose bright idea was it to leave the food unattended?" Wulfric grumbled.

Timothy watched warily as Artemis settled herself back by the occasional table Cook had laden with sandwiches, small cakes and the makings of tea and coffee. "I don't think it's anyone's fault precisely," he said. "Think, the Big Lump isn't currently in full time residence, so everybody has got out of the habit of minding the resident carnivore."

Wulfric groaned. "And cats around food…regardless of size…"

"Yes, quite," Timothy said. "You do realise those are cheese and pickle sandwiches, you daft cat?"

Artemis grumbled at him unimpressed.

"I think some of them might be cucumber and something," Wulfric added. Timothy glared at him.

"Anyway," Wulfric grinned, "looks like we're going to have to change our plans for the morning."

"Really," Carrow growled as he strode in, and took in the situation with a scowl. "For Throne's sake," he muttered as he scooped up Artemis, ignoring her growling snarling struggles, and even her attempt to bite his throat, his arm, anything she could reach. Timothy got a last glance of her stunned and indignant expression just as Carrow very firmly shut the door in her face.

The banging, scratching and muffled howls started almost immediately.

"To business Gentlemen," Carrow boomed as he stalked over to his chair, "I do believe we have some interesting matters…and a Dark Lady, to discuss," he grinned at them looking only slightly less dangerous than Artemis.

"The Fox," Timothy said, face rigid as the memory of the muzzle of that gun just inches from his face resurfaced again.

"No," Carrow's grin became even more predatory, "start at the beginning."

Timothy closed his eyes for a moment, not daring to sigh. This was going to be an extremely long morning, best to get it over with.

oOo

The God-Emperor peered at the spinning globe in fascination. "Yes, it's almost…look here's Iceland," he jabbed a finger through the glowing knot of leylines, "and this is the mid-Atlantic ridge."

Above and below where the tiny transparent island sat, a bright and knotted line spread out, neatly slicing the island itself in half.

"And here is Greenland, geologically much older," the God-Emperor continued, poking a large digit at the much darker and delicately cobwebbed slab of land.

"Hmmm, really?" Arithmancer Strange seemed not entirely convinced, "though it's not my area of expertise…"

The American continents rolled slowly past as they watched a smattering of dark and light, lacy streamers and cobwebs, the west coast a strange hive of activity, dark patches, blazing lights, web like knots.

"It's geological age," the God-Emperor burst out, "look," he indicated the to the southern continent, "Australia is another very old continent and look how dark it is in comparison with say…here," he pointed to a sting of islands further north.

"I'll admit that the study of the Earth's...geology?" Strange said, "is something I know very little about, at all, but I'm not sure it explains things like that." She pointed to a bright knot located in Europe.

"That's why this is so exciting," the God-Emperor grinned. "I wonder where that is," he mused.

"You know what we need?" She looked up at the God-Emperor who arched a brow quizzically.

"We need more data," she smiled, "and a better handle on the…geology and geography. Looks like I'm going to be busy for the next ten years at least," she rubbed her hands in relish at the thought.

oOo

"…her group of followers that are apparently behind numerous kidnappings," Carrow said with a thoughtful frown, tea cup held delicately between forefinger and thumb.

"Sort of," Timothy said slowly, "though it's hard to pin them down. _She_ also has a nasty tendency to just hire people to do her dirty work, a little bit here, a little bit there, so nobody we've spoken to had any idea of what her aims and ideals really are…if she actually has any…"

"It would be simple enough for her true followers to pose as members of an actual gang," Carrow suggested, "there are plenty available in the Knockturn area. Think, it would benefit her cause two-fold, her true followers stay hidden among the normal criminal elements, raising support for her aims, while at the same time being able being able to spy on the hired help and keep them in line."

"I see what you mean…I mean, we did think the gang with the Saturn mark were something to do with her, but she might very well just be hiring them occasionally," Timothy frowned uneasily, "I just feel we're missing something…"

Wulfric nodded. "It's like having a ten thousand piece jigsaw puzzle without the picture."

"We've just got snippits and hints and things that we're trying to piece together," Timothy said, doing his best to ignore the pitiful moaning almost growls coming from outside the door.

Frankly, if he wasn't absolutely certain that it was Artemis kicking up a fuss, he'd be reaching for that special clip of silver bullets, the one that he'd managed to sneak onto Jon's chair when he wasn't looking. The yowling was joined by a thunderous scrabbling at the door, as if Artemis was trying to dig her way in. Actually that wasn't funny; if she damaged any of the carpets or wooden fittings, Bernard and his cronies were going to be impossible.

"There's the odd disappearances in Knockturn," Wulfric said through a mouthful of sandwich.

"Though we seem to have knocked that on the head," Timothy pointed out.

"For the time being…"

"Drug dealing…"

"But that could just be the natural background criminality…"

"Not to mention dealing in suspicious objects…"

"Also normal."

"…and mixing with muggle criminals maybe, or at least going over into the non-magical world…"

"Who knows how long that's being going on…"

"So to summarise," Carrow said, "we have lots of suspicious individuals who have little to nothing to do with one another, but are somehow tenuously linked to one shadowy individual. We can't possibly watch them all, so what we need…unless…I have an idea!" He sprang up, and practically ran to the door in a swirl of brocade robes, disappearing to who knew where.

In the doorway Artemis sat, one paw raised, a look of supreme puzzlement on her face.

oOo

"My Lord."

The God-Emperor almost sighed in exasperation; only one person had that voice. Plastering a smile on his face, he straightened up. "Hi Xander, what can I do for you?"

Carrow's jaw visibly tightened, his fingers flexing around the box he clutched in his hand. "My Lord," he growled bowing formally, "I ask of you a…favour."

"Uh-uh?" The God-Emperor raised an eyebrow in amusement. The day Carrow actually paid a social visit would probably signal the end of the world or something. Carrow's attention seemed to be momentarily distracted by the holographic display.

"Oh, we were just looking at a culmination of the global magical data so far," he ushered Carrow forward, "we'll be uploading them to you shortly…you have been getting them all right haven't you?"

"Yes…indeed," Carrow gave a curt nod.

"Great," the God smiled brightly, "I've never seen Earth like this before, it's fascinating. Do you see how some of these, errr, _ley-lines_ are associated quite closely with areas of tectonic activity?"

"How sensitive is it?" Carrow asked.

"Fairly." Where was this going, the God-Emperor wondered. "We did a minor update about a month ago, which has really improved the quality of the data we're receiving…"

"Could it detect a small surveillance device perhaps," Carrow looked up at him fiddling with the box in his hand, "something like…these for example…"

The God-Emperor leaned forward in excited anticipation. "Are these…" He took the box, eagerly examining the two tiny devices nestled in the velvet interior. Genuine far-future technology…miniaturisation…ooooh, honest to goodness _nano-technology!_ Previously, he wouldn't have had a hope of getting even close to this wonder of…but now he'd got access to magic, nested runic seals laser cut in miniature, they'd had some success with that, and some of the Arithmancy guys had put together something really experimental now they were incorporating multidimensional maths into it…

"…would it be possible to reproduce it?"

The God-Emperor blinked in surprise. "Oh…er…" He looked down at the beautiful wonderful devices again. "Yes…yes, leave it to me…yes, I'm sure I can do something for you!" He clapped Carrow reassuringly on the shoulder.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Er…am I in some sort of trouble?" Matthew asked nervously as he discretely eyed the parcel on the Adjutant's desk, trying not to draw any more attention to himself than necessary. The bloke standing in the corner was obviously an MP, but as for the woman in a discreet charcoal trouser suit, he had no idea, except she was possibly one of the most boring looking people he'd ever seen.

"Not exactly," the Adjutant smiled at him over steepled fingers, _but you could be_ was merely implied. "It appears you have received a parcel, and it's not from your wife or mother. Well, are you going to open it?" He pushed the parcel towards Matthew with a predatory smile.

Maybe Timmo had finally snapped and sent him a box of scorpions or something. Matthew gave the brown paper wrapped parcel a wary once over, before gingerly unpeeling the paper at one end. It failed to explode, bite him or otherwise move in any way.

After that it became quickly apparently the sender had absolutely no idea how to wrap a parcel and they were absolutely doing it for keeps, using whatever had been to hand, including what looked like an entire roll of duct tape. Swearing under his breath, he finally pulled the last of the packing free to reveal a hefty leather bound tome and a neatly folded letter sealed with a blob of red wax imprinted with…he tilted the thing in the light…a skull superimposed on a stylised "I"

"Oh bloody hell," he muttered unable to hide his dismay. Now he looked, yeah, bloody double-headed eagle embossed on the front of the book surrounded by a stylised laurel wreath. Gingerly, he cracked the letter open.

"… _much pleasure in reading the rough draft of your treatise…"_

Oh…oh, bloody buggering _fuck_.

"… _it is a pleasure to see such a desire to broaden your knowledge of combating the more elusive and heinous of Humanity's any enemies. To assist you in your endeavour I have gathered together some of my thoughts on the topic…"_

Timmo must have given the giant freak that copy of the zombie hunting manual, and this, he eyed the book suspiciously, this was the violent bastard's response…oh fuck.

"… _you will excuse my ramblings. I could not help adding the odd anecdote to illustrate my methods…"_

Right now the box of scorpions was looking like a fantastic idea. Matthew ran a hand down his face, trying to fight down the bubble of hysterical laughter that was trying to burst out.

"Aren't you going to open it?" the boring woman asked, far too eager looking for Matthew's liking.

Expecting something horrifying to crawl out, he carefully lifted the cover, feeling slightly foolish when only a title page of sorts was revealed.

 _An Illustrated Treatise of the Combating_

 _of the Numinous and Daemonic Enemies of Humanity._

 _By the Grace of the God-Emperor of Mankind._

 _Inquisitor Allesandor Darius Carrow._

Opposite was a highly detailed and gruesome ink drawing of a man in armour that bore a passing resemblance to Carrow's monstrous suit, locked in fierce combat with a horrific amalgamation of tentacles and mis-jointed limbs.

Next to it was a small note, _"Bit of an exaggeration"_ , written, to Matthew's bemusement, in red biro. He blinked, feeling almost sun-dazzled; the handwriting, it was almost as if it were trying to lift off the page, it was so full of energy.

Blinking rapidly, he wrenched his eyes away from the page, only to find everyone leaning forward, attempting to read upside down.

"Numinous and daemonic…" the MP muttered, "what?"

"I know this looks beyond weird," Matthew tried to explain, "but this had a lot to do with that incident that I can't talk about at that place that I can't mention."

"Right." The Adjutant seemed completely unimpressed.

The boring woman pointed a trembling finger. "The red handwriting…whose is it?"

Matthew scratched his head, squinting at the page once more. "I don't know…err, it does say something about…comments and amendments courtesy of the God-Emperor of Mankind, true ruler, protector and guide of Humanity…er, _what?!_ "

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"…essay to submit next Thursday, and also read pages 569 to 726 of your text books," Professor Lupin gave the moaners a polite look of supreme uninterest, while also completely ignoring the sniggers of Black who was currently sprawled at his feet like a particularly shaggy rug.

The uneasy atmosphere of the classroom wavered for a moment at the unfairness at so much reading, but settled at the presence of Carrow lurking in the background doing who knew what. Even over the soft background rustling and shifting of the class, Hermione could clearly discern the quiet bellows like breathing of the large man.

"We will be having a little quiz on the rampage of Hagar the Horrible, so I recommend doing it, and no, Miss Granger, we will not be trying to reconstruct some of his more interesting and gruesome magics."

Hermione put her hand down with a huff, ignoring the stares and grins of the rest of the OWL History class. She could practically feel Carrow's smirk on the back of her neck. That wasn't what she had being going to ask _at all_.

She was still gently fuming as the rest of the class clattered out as fast as they humanly could, all heading to lunch, eager to stuff food in the faces to fill up that vacuous hole they called a brain cavity no doubt.

"Hey, Ripper," Ron's grin faltered as he took in her expression, "Professor Lupin's a decent teacher, so it can't have been that bad…can it?"

Hermione hunched her shoulders and stumped off, Ron trailing in her wake. "Er…Hermione, you do know this isn't the way to the Great Hall, don't you?"

"I thought we were grabbing something to eat and then getting some extra calisthenics in, you know…the next task for the tournament and that…" Neville said, as they ducked behind a tapestry and down a spiral staircase.

Growling, Hermione came to a halt, the lads nearly ploughing into her back. "Just…just give me a moment," she snarled, "do you ever get fed up with the way people just assume you're a dark witch intent on evil or something?"

Ron and Neville exchanged worried looks. "Can't say I have…worried about being mistaken for a dark witch, that is," Ron said, wincing as Neville jabbed him in the ribs. Hermione fortunately wasn't paying any attention, her thoughts otherwise occupied.

"Anyway," she continued, "I've been thinking, it's always about lunchtime that Carrow says prayers at the Lodge during the summer, so if we go to the Chapel now…" she turned, striding off, intent on her target

Behind her Ron and Neville looked at one another. "I'll go and tell the others," Neville gave Ron a hearty clap on the shoulder, "you're on your own mate. Good luck."

Hermione ignore then as she took a turn through a door that only existed on Tuesdays at lunchtimes nearly slamming into Professor Snape and Moody as she came out the other side. Professor Snape's tiny servo-skull hissed at them over his shoulder. Smiling nervously, she sidled past the two men who watched her and Ron suspiciously.

"Wonder what they're up to," Ron asked as they hurtled round the corner.

"Isn't it obvious?" Hermione scowled. "The next task on the tournament. Come on."

She nipped through a passage you could only walk along one way, and which dropped them off conveniently near the West Tower, a dark poorly lit passage, its stone walls sporting the odd threadbare tapestry. Ahead of them walked a couple of Hufflepuff second years.

"Hey," Ron muttered in her ear, "aren't they some of the weirdos who always follow along with Chaplain Caius's rants?"

"They are, aren't they," she said, staring intently at the younger students as they hurried along in front of them, "I think one of them's got a book tucked under his arm, and the other one, isn't he the one who climbed on the table at the Welcoming Feast?"

Quietly they followed the two students as they turned through a pair of heavy wooden doors into…

Hermione came to a halt as the members of the little chapel's congregation turned to stare at her. Shuffling sideways, she ducked into one of the small pews, feeling quite out of place, and increasingly uncomfortable as Ron squashed in beside her. These pews were obviously built with smaller frames in mind.

Near the altar, Professor Carrow turned and smirked at her from under the hood of his black leather robes. Hermione stared; how the _hell_ had he managed to get down here so fast? They'd taken the quickest possible route and…and they…oooh, the infuriating man.

A sideways glance assured her that Ron was indeed glaring at her. There was absolutely no way they could leave now. Professor Carrow would track them down later and ask questions, and as she had discovered over various summers, even "I needed the loo," was not an acceptable excuse. She settled, resigned, trying to ignore the disgruntled muttering beside her as the prayers of the congregation washed over them.

Carrow obviously hadn't managed to get to work on the place yet, the walls being plain white washed stone. It was odd though…the altar seemed to be through an arch where Chaplain Caius stood before the stone plain slab, it's only decoration an incised double-headed eagle; above, hung another double-headed eagle, this one life-like in its detail, gilded and polished to a shine.

It's a painting, Hermione thought, watching in wonder as Chaplain Caius swung a censor, his movements carefully mirrored by a student, a short chubby boy with glasses who was using what looked like a small cauldron on the end of a chain, thick fragrant smelling smoke billowing in its wake.

Carrow (because who else could it be) hadn't painted the entire chapel because he'd been concentrating his efforts on this one glorious example, specifically to make it easier for the Chaplain to interact with the students.

That explained a lot, Hermione frowned thoughtfully as she settled back for the duration. Beside her, Ron shifted uncomfortably.

"We could have had lunch and calisthenics you know," Ron grumbled quietly as the other students quietly poured out of the chapel on their way to afternoon classes.

"At least now we know now," Hermione hissed back feeling slightly guilty.

"'Tis good to see you taking your spiritual studies more seriously," Professor Carrow's deep growl came from behind them, echoing somewhere above their heads. Turning, Hermione came face to chest with the enormous professor.

"Yes of course Sir," she nodded trying to sound as sincere as possible, while beside her Ron did his absolute best to look equally enthusiastic as they slowly backed away towards the door.

"Excellent," Carrow smiled down at them displaying far too many teeth, "I look forward to seeing you at afternoon prayers later."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Ron muttered eyeing the crowd gathered in the Great Hall warily, as he cradled his Cadia IV protectively to his chest like some sort of unyielding and metal teddy-bear. The house tables had been replaced with tiered seating, large screens, and silvery shimmering things, all occupying the space behind where the high table normally stood.

"Too late to back out now," Greg smirked.

Ron scowled to himself; well of course it was too late to back out, but it didn't change the fact that Uncle Sev had the creepiest grin he'd ever seen…and Mad-Eye Moody wasn't much better. Then just to put the tinsel on the top of his foreboding, Carrow loomed behind them looking like the kneazle that had got the cream. Whatever they'd planned out for this second round of the tournament was going to be _brutal_.

Somebody elbowed him sharply in the ribs. "Concentrate," Hermione hissed.

"…your task is to find the second half of your map," Uncle Sev was saying, "without losing your teammates!" He cackled with laughter, causing the hairs on the back of Ron's neck to stand on end.

"…don't worry though, each team's servo-skull will record your every triumph…and misstep."

More creepy grinning.

"…take your portkey, _Team Dungeon Crawlers_!"

There was a scuffle as the odd assortment of students shuffled round to get a better hold of the rope port-key. A couple of them, he noted, had knives sheathed at their waists. He hoped they knew how to use them, because if they _didn't_ …

Team Dungeon Crawlers disappeared with a crack and a deafening cheer from the students.

" _Team Win-some Warriors_ ,"

Ron looked over to find Millie waving as she and Neville and the others grabbed hold of their team's port-key, holding their weapons at the ready, finally disappearing with a crack of displaced air.

" _Team Malcolm_ ,"

Who'd still got pans hanging off his rucksack Ron saw, before the skinny bespectacled Ravenclaw disappeared. More cheering. A bead of cold sweat began its torturous journey down his spine.

" _Team Ave Imperator…"_

Ron miserably reached out for the rope as Hermione offered it to him, his hand cold and damp, Colin, Luna and Greg grabbing hold with almost aggressive enthusiasm, the familiar hooking sensation of the port-key grabbing him and twirling him around until it deposited him and the others elsewhere.

oOo

"How did we get talked into this a _second time_?" Sirius fumed, as he did his best to not look down.

"Because you're kind-hearted and love volunteering for things?" Remus offered.

Sirius gave his best friend a deeply offended look.

"Fine," Remus sighed, "he's your Godson."

"But I'm helping _Snape_ out here," Sirius pointed out.

"Which you only did because you thought you were getting one over on _Carrow_ ," Remus said patiently.

"I've been played, haven't I?" Sirius said morosely.

"Like a champ," Remus smirked, as he pulled out his shrunken broomstick and enlarged it with a flick of his wand.

oOo

"Told you this was going to be bad," Ron said for the sixth time since the portkey had deposited them on the small platform suspended who knew where. To make matters worse, the platform itself had been roughly constructed from planks of wood that had definitely seen better days, and more than their fair share of woodworm.

All around them was open space. There were other platforms here and there, and vegetation, tropical vines that hung down into the cavernous space festooned with rich green foliage and pale flowers that seemed to glow slightly in the overcast light.

"We didn't bring brooms with us, did we?" Greg said, as the team servo-skull hovered accusingly in front of them.

"No," Hermione glanced over the edge of the platform, "but it shouldn't matter. Look, if we jump, we can grab hold of those vines over there and then we can either climb up to that platform over there, or we can go down. I think there's another platform below us."

Ron swallowed as he eyed the vines nervously, images of hanging off the side of Hogwarts flashing through his mind, making his palms sweat. "Are you sure they're close enough, I know we've done stuff a bit like this before, but…"

Slinging her Cadia across her back, Hermione stepped back a few paces as she gauged the distance…with a roar, she made the jump, scrabbling at the vines until she got a good grip. Getting comfortable, she looked over her shoulder, "It's fine, guys," she grinned.

Oh great, Ron sighed, no backing out now. He charged across the platform and flung himself into space, trusting that Uncle Sev and Old Mad-Eye weren't really out to kill him.

"Right," Greg huffed as he pulled himself further up into a more comfortable position, "up or down?"

"Down," Hermione said firmly. "Think of it this way," she said as the others stared at her, "one way or another we're going down. It's just a matter of how fast."

oOo

Sirius leaned forward over his broom, squinting down at the lone figure on the wooden platform below. Team Malcolm was hard at work at something that appeared to be a crude mat clearly woven from some of the vines, the servo-skull hovering over his shoulder closely following every movement of the Ravenclaw's wand.

"What is he doing?" Sirius looked at Remus questioningly, but the werewolf ignored him, frowning intently as he followed Malcolm's every move, his broom drifting slowly sideways from his lack of attention.

"I think...he can't be, can he?" Remus looked at Sirius utterly perplexed.

"What?" Sirius snapped. "Don't ask me, I'm asking _you_."

"He is, he really is," Remus ignored him, manoeuvring his broom lower.

" _What?_ " Sirius considered slapping his friend with his broomstick for a moment. If he wasn't actually flying it…

Malcolm had apparently finished whatever the wand work had been, and was now kneeling in the middle of his creation. To Sirius's amazement, the mat slowly rose from the platform and began to undulate forward, its edges rippling like the wings of a manta ray as it carried the Ravenclaw to a platform some thirty feet away.

"Oh, crap," Sirius muttered as he forced his broom into a dive. The lad had made himself a magic carpet, and Merlin knew how well the thing was going to hold up. Best to get below him in case it wasn't good enough.

It was evident Malcolm had had a similar thought, considering the strained expression in his face as he urged the mat forward, its undulations slowing, becoming more hesitant. Below Sirius watched heart in his mouth as the mat slowly crept forward, magic visibly unravelling before his eyes.

Just fifteen feet left…ten feet…eight feet…the mat itself began unravel shedding leaves…six feet… four feet…Malcolm desperately launched himself forward colliding noisily with the edge of the platform. Scrambling desperately, he managed to get a leg up on to the platform, heaving himself up to lie panting on his side, the servo-skull hovering over him, a bronze tentacle daintily stroking his hair.

"All right, lad?" Sirius called.

Malcolm opened his eyes with a start, sitting bolt upright with a clatter. "Er…yes…yes Sir," he muttered, as he nervously shoved his glasses up his nose.

"Good," Sirius grinned, "nice bit of magic there by the way!" He gave the Ravenclaw a thumbs-up.

Malcolm blushed scarlet.

oOo

"Do you think Professor Snape made this?" Luna asked grey eyes wide and innocent as she hung upside down from a nearby vine, "or do you think he dug a body up from the graveyard in Hogsmeade?"

Ron gave the servo-skull a nervous glance; hopefully the annoying thing hadn't picked that up, but he wasn't counting his luck on it…and Luna did have a point.

The body, what they could see of it, was pretty rank in Ron's opinion. If Uncle Sev had actually made this…thing then he had truly gone above and beyond in the pursuit of authenticity. The manky thing even had maggots squirming around in the eye sockets, for Merlin's sake…what they could see of it, thanks to the vines.

Actually, now he came to think about it, there was something distinctly odd about those vines; they were different from the others they had seen, with an almost furry texture…if only they had Neville with them…he reached out to teach one, his bare fingers just brushing the surprisingly sticky surface…

Almost instantly he regretted his impulsiveness, his fingers feeling as if he'd dipped them in lava. Eyes watering from the pain, he went to stick them in his mouth, desperate for any sort of relief.

"DON'T," Hermione bellowed, the naked fear in her voice causing him to jerk his hand back.

"Colin, see to him," Hermione snapped, covering her concern with anger as she pulled out her machete. Ron watched miserably as he did his best to cling on one handed, while Colin poked and prodded at his now swollen and red fingers, doing mysterious things with salve and bandages.

Greg gave him a sad shake of his head as he went to help Hermione with the vine clearance. Unfortunately, the vine seemed to have other ideas and was attempting to fight back, thrashing and writhing as it threw thick tendrils out at them, moving and twining around its rotten prize as thick gooey orange liquid oozed along its lengths.

"Seriously, Ripper," Greg complained as he finally cut through a particularly thick vine which began oozing blood-red sap through its broken ends, "are you sure this isn't here just for, err…atmosphere or something? How likely is it that Snape…"

"Professor Snape," Hermione growled as she slashed at the angry vines.

"…Professor Snape has actually planted something in this disgusting thing's pockets…if it's even got any? _Seriously_?" He gave a flailing tendril a wild hack with his knife.

"Watch out below," Hermione called out as a large chunk of the carnivorous plant fell away, the corpse slumping sadly sideways as it became partially free. Swearing softly Greg gave the bundle of vines and corpse a vicious kick as it swung far too close to him for comfort, setting the whole thing rattling and swinging.

Above, a cloud of black exploded out of the tangled rat's nest of vines, an angry fluttering squeaking cloud that descended on the team. Ron ducked down, clamping as hard as he could to his vine, black leathery wings whipping around his head, the breeze stirring his hair.

A panicked scream and shouts cut through the noise of the bats. Ron lifted his head to find Greg flailing madly as he tried to regain his grip on the vines, falling away into space eyes wide with panic, until suddenly his motion was halted, leaving him suspended awkwardly above the void.

Looking over, Ron saw Hermione with her wand out, a determined frown on her face, as she carefully floated Greg back to the relative safety of the vines. Greg clamped on like a desperate koala bear, face pale and sweaty.

"Was that…" Ron began.

" _Wingardium Leviosa_ ," Hermione gave him a shaky smile, "yes, it was."

Ron grinned. "The old ones are always the best."

"Guys," Greg said voice wavering a little, "can we er…can we find somewhere safer to have something to eat or something. I really need to sit down a moment."

"Worry about the body," Colin asked.

"Don't worry," Luna said, as she swung lazily on a vine, "while everyone was busy I had a little check and he only had these on him." She held up a slightly grubby pack Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans.

oOo

They winced as the distant team, one of whom looked suspiciously like a bear, fell to their apparent doom, winking out of existence well before they actually hit the ground, the remains of the rope bridge they had been attempting to cross sadly swinging back and forth as it hung down into the void.

"They'll be fine," Remus said as he drifted along on his broomstick, "I bet even now Poppy is fussing over them, complaining to anyone who will listen about dangerous activities and the like."

"True, true," Sirius winced at the thought, "wait…that's that over there?" he nodded to a dark patch of what looked suspiciously like smoke rising from a platform further up. Beside him Remus frowned, nose twitching.

"Smoke," he said, "we'd best go look, someone may have tried to fry some sausages and it went horribly wrong."

As they drew closer, it became very clear very quickly that this wasn't some campfire that had got out of hand; a burning figure strode stiffly across the platform, hissing and crackling angrily while it was harassed by several desperate students as they did their best to protect others who were trying to rescue a stocky blonde boy who was hanging off the edge of the platform. He wasn't making it easy either, thrashing and screaming in panic. Sirius also had a nasty suspicion, considering the damp stain on his trousers, that the poor lad had wet himself in his fear.

" _Don't pour water on it_ ," someone shouted as a great hiss of steam went up from the burning figure. " _You bloody idiot!"_ There was a faint apologetic shout, and then to Sirius's surprise one of the others, a skinny girl with glasses dodged round the golem's flailing arms and kicked it straight between the legs as hard as she could, which would have worked brilliantly, Sirius thought, if the bloody thing actually had testicles.

" _Move, you idiot!"_

A flash of angry red light struck the golem square in the chest, causing it to disintegrate, showering the students with glowing red splinters. From out of the ruins, a metal cylinder tumbled, landing with a clatter, then rolling towards the edge. The misguided-ball-kicking girl dived for it, catching it just before it fell over the edge, nearly sending herself off in the process, her team-mates only just managing to grab her legs in time.

"Nice," Sirius said, "seeker reflexes!" He shrugged, grinning at Remus's exasperated sigh.

"Honestly, is Quidditch the only thing you think of?"

"No, sometimes I think about food," Sirius pointed out.

"Right," Remus smirked.

Over on the platform, the Dungeon Crawlers had opened the metal cylinder to reveal a rolled up piece of parchment. One of them, wearing dragon hide gloves (and given Snape's repertoire of poisons, Sirius really didn't blame them) carefully slid it out and unrolled it.

" _It's a map."_

Excitement ran through the group as they raced to touch the thing. With a shout of _"Victorious"_ they disappeared, probably directly into the tender clutches of Poppy Pomfrey. Rather them than him, Sirius thought with a shudder.

oOo

"Back off," the little upstart squirt said, brandishing his knife. The rest of the Dungeon Crawlers stood behind him, looking even less confident. "I've got a knife," he blustered, waving the three inch long folding pen-knife in what he obviously thought was a threatening manner.

Frankly, he was lucky he hadn't managed to cut his own fingers off yet; Ron sighed, shaking his head sadly as beside him Greg tried not to laugh.

"No, no, that's not a knife," Hermione smirked, " _this_ is a knife," she pulled out her machete with a flourish.

"And this is a gun," Greg snarled as he lifted his Cadia IV into a firing position.

"Wow, they're lacking in the back-bone department," Greg scowled after the retreating backs of the Dungeon Crawlers as they ran back the way they'd come through the obscuring curtain of vines and across the flimsy rope bridge on the other side.

"That has got to be one of the saddest thing I've ever seen," Hermione huffed.

"So, where to next, guys?" Ron asked, "We've got options."

The platform they were currently on was surprisingly large, so large in fact that it was able to support a small copse of flowering trees. On the other side was another rope bridge that led off to a smaller platform, while near to where Ron stood knotted ropes hung down from somewhere above that was obscured by what looked like a tangle of roots dripping with moisture.

There was even what looked like a spiral staircase roughly constructed out of pine planks. The last one they'd tried had become smaller and smaller until it became just a rope to nowhere and they'd been forced to retreat, the steps too narrow for their feet. Hermione had theorised they were one way only. In Ron's opinion they were a nasty joke on someone's part…naming no names of course.

"Hmmm…guys, I think there's something underneath here."

Ron turned to find Colin crouched down at the edge of the platform, his heavy pack discarded nearby.

"It looks like a box or something tangled up in the roots," he smiled up at them desperate to please, "if we got some of those vines, like the non flesh dissolving ones we could make a rope and sling it underneath and…"

Ron sidled over to take a look himself. Ignoring the drop as best he could, he lay down and peered underneath. A dark mat of roots hung down, dripping moisture, and there tangled among them was a small box, bound with metal straps, like a miniature pirate's chest. Satisfied, he retreated.

"…could climb out along it like a monkey and grab the chest and then…"

"Or we could just make a hole in the platform," Ron said as he came up behind Colin.

The others turned and stared at him. "Isn't that cheating?" Greg said.

"I don't think so," Ron frowned.

"And what if the platform falls apart from under us?" Hermione pointed out.

"Ermm…" Ron paused, he hadn't thought of that, but on the other hand, "errr…there's quite a lot of roots and stuff under there. I think…maybe…they're holding the platform together to a certain extent, and also if the platform does disintegrate, we'll have something to grab. Yes?"

The others didn't look completely convinced.

"Look…I think it should be about… _here_ ," Ron paced the distance from the edge of the platform trying to judge it as best he could. Crouching down he examined the rough planks. They'd buckled and shifted a bit thanks to the trees growing through them, but still looked annoyingly solid.

"Fine," Hermione said, "we'll go through the floor then, but Colin, _you're_ going to retrieve the chest, or whatever it is."

The planks proved resistant, but with a transfigured crowbar, a cutting hex and a lot of swearing they finally managed to make a hole large enough for Colin to fit through.

"Erm…" Colin stared down at the hole dubiously; beyond lay a dark tangled mass that looked as inviting as a scorpion pit. Gingerly, he lowered himself in. "This better not be like those flesh eating vines, guys." The servo-skull darted after him.

And then they waited, listening to the rustling and distant clattering as Colin clambered around beneath then. There was a crash and shriek, a muffled "I'm okay," and then the rustling and clattering began to drift back towards them. Finally a small and battered chest was pushed through the hole, closely followed by an extremely grubby and triumphant Colin.

"I don't think it's poisonous," Greg announced as he cast a series of detection spells on the chest, "but I don't recommend licking it."

"Right." Reaching over, Ron pushed the lid up, the hinges creaking protest to reveal a roll of parchment. The others stared at him.

"I just figured, considering where it was, it wouldn't be locked." He shrugged. "So do you think this is the second half of the map or a recipe for chicken soup?"

oOo

A wall of sound slammed into them as the port-key map dumped them in the Great Hall. Ron reflexively reached for his Cadia IV, blinking round him for the threat, his heart racing, the others doing much the same.

No, it was the rest of students, just for once forgetting how much they loathed the DC and really getting behind them. It was…exhilarating, he grinned a bubble of adrenaline fuelled laughter building up. Around him the others smiled, caught up in the celebratory atmosphere.

"Damn, I'm glad that's over," Greg slapped him on the shoulder. On his other side, Hermione punched him in the arm hard enough to bruise.

"Looks like Millie's gone out," she said.

"Really?" Ron frowned surprised, glancing round. At the other end of the stage, the Dungeon Crawlers stood eyeing them suspiciously as they were congratulated by their friends, Malcolm nearby having his arm shook off by an over excited Professor Flitwick.

"It's sad isn't it," Colin said, as he insisted on a hug, "at least some of the Defence Club is still in the race."

"Doesn't it look as if everyone's been drinking happy juice?" Luna said with a vague smile, as she shook his hand.

Happy juice? The crowd did seem a little more enthusiastic than normal. Uncle Sev caught his eye then, and even smiled a bit when he gave him a grin and a thumbs-up. And then Uncle Sev nodded pointedly to something with a raised eyebrow. Puzzled, Ron turned to look.

"…cannot believe you did something so utterly irresponsible," Professor McGonagall shouted, as she towered over Fred and George (despite them being taller than her), radiating fury.

"We tested it on ourselves," Fred (or possibly George) unwisely protested.

"That is irrelevant," McGonagall's lips thinned to a severe line, "you not only fed adulterated butter beer to _children,_ you also endangered your _own lives_."

The Twins squirmed in obvious discomfort, unable to escape.

"When I tell your mother…"

"Oooh, the butter beer," Professor (sort of) Black exclaimed as he bounced up to the Twins, "did it work?"

The Twins, momentarily forgetting the danger they were in, nodded enthusiastically, obviously wanting to show off their success to their business partner.

"Such a shame I didn't get to try any," Black sighed, looking like a kicked dog.

McGonagall exploded. "SIRIUS BLACK, IF YOU HAD ANYTHING TO DO WITH THIS…"

Ron bit back a laugh. "Wonder if there's any food around here," he said.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The chattering and gossiping of the Wizengamot members filled the chamber as they slowly drifted towards the doors, like a crowd of maroon crows.

"Such a pity they weren't this talkative during the session," Timothy grumbled.

Beside him Dumbledore gave a huff of laughter. "I suppose the health of your neighbours will always be more interesting than the minutiae of a bill attempting to improve quality levels of imported flobberworm mucous."

"True, true," Timothy sighed, wishing he was somewhere nice and peaceful with a large mug of coffee.

"I was actually wanting to ask your advice on something."

Timothy gave the Headmaster a suspicious look, of which the old man took absolutely no notice.

"You of course know Mr Augustus Prince…"

Timothy nodded, wondering where this was going.

"It has come to my notice that he is in fact Severus Snape's many times Great Grandfather. Though I'm sure Mr Prince is aware of Severus and his many doings, I'm not sure Severus is aware of his ancestor…do you think maybe I should encourage, ah…some sort of correspondence?"

Why would someone as worldly and wise as Albus Dumbledore want his opinion on such a topic? "Well, I suppose…" Timothy considered the matter a moment, "I've never got the impression that Snape is exactly overburdened with family…maybe if they were made aware of each other's existence and then it was left up to them?"

"Hmmm, my thoughts exactly," Dumbledore gave him a beaming smile, "ah look, there's Cornelius…"

Fudge caught his eye at that moment, giving Timothy the most vicious smirk.

"…he's become so adept at disappearing just when you need to talk to him recently. I suppose I should take this opportunity," Dumbledore smirked into his beard, "it's been delightful talking to you, look after yourself young man."

Timothy watched the Headmaster as he strolled over to the Minister. What had that been about? He hoped it had absolutely nothing to do with the suspiciously smug look Fudge was currently sporting.

Putting his niggling suspicions aside, he made his way to the lifts. One of the advantages of having offices on such an unfashionable floor of the Ministry was the lack of company in the lift. For a few moments he could have some peace and quiet, disturbed only by the rustling of the memo-planes flitting around above him.

oOo

He knew something was wrong the moment he stepped out of the lift ( _Lair of the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic._ When had that changed?) It was too quiet. Normally there'd be someone raiding the coffee machine, the faint sound of keyboards and people, many people working away at the ghostly bureaucratic activities that only Carrow seemed to be able to generate.

Dumping his folders on the floor by the lift, Timothy pulled out his Browning and wand. Edging forward, he made his way towards the main offices, hugging the shadows as much as he could.

The corridors were eerily quiet; every so often he would spot a sign of hurried evacuation discarded papers, a pair of glasses lying forlornly on the floor, a splash mark of spell fire in the wall…something crumpled and sad lying near the wall. Heart in his mouth, Timothy cautiously approached the fallen figure, expecting a trap at any moment.

A gentle prod with a foot elicited no reaction. He slowly turned the body over to reveal a pool of blood and gore, mainly intestines from the look of it…cheap robes, a bit threadbare…definitely not a member of staff…a hard face, broken nose, terrible teeth, looked like some tough from the pits of Knockturn's slums. What on earth was he doing here?

Worry clawing at his throat, he continued on his way.

As he turned the corner, he found the way barred. Desks had been carefully positioned across the passage, and even now were manned by a number of the staff, a blood-spattered and very angry looking witch, and one of the guys from IT looking far too comfortable with a Cadia IV in hands. The wizard hunched between them looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Mr Faulks, Sir," the wizard gasped in relief moving forward. The IT guy blocked him.

"Don't be stupid" he growled. "It could be a glamour, you idiot". The wizard slumped forward, quite dejected.

"We shot the last sucker who tried us", the IT guy grinned, obviously enjoying himself far too much.

Huddled near the barricade lay the body of another instruder, this one scrawny and sharp featured, with grubby blonde hair, another nameless hopeless thing.

"Hmm." Timothy considered the matter before reciting several of Carrow's favourite prayers.

"Okay, okay", the IT guy rolled his eyes, "you must be nuts memorising that stuff."

Huffing to himself, Timothy shrugged off his Wizengamot robes, tossing them over the barricade. "What's the situation," he demanded, "and where's Ms Slyte?"

"Erm, she's…"

There was a flurry of noise and gesticulating, while the wizard actually had the presence of mind to pull out a notepad to make a paper airplane memo. Slyte appeared soon after at a run, her face hard and grim, her eau-de-nil twin-set and pearls looking slightly incongruous.

"Oh thank goodness," she said as she carefully examined him over the barrier, "you're all right."

"What's the situation?" Timothy demanded.

"Well…when the attack began security were of course alerted, and then we went into lock down," Slyte went into professional mode, "we've been evacuating people into the Underground, a few at a time of course, the injured first…other than that, we've been doing our best to maintain an air of normalcy with the rest of the Ministry. No need to draw too much attention to ourselves…"

"Quite," Timothy grimaced at the thought of the DMLE getting involved.

"…are you going to join us?"

"No…"

"Timothy," Slyte sighed.

"There are likely more of them in here with us. I'm going to see if I can put an end to this," Timothy growled, looking back the way he'd come.

A quick check of the Browning, and he slid back down the passage, ignoring the shouts for him to come back. At least they wouldn't be able to escape, but due to the warren like nature of the place a result of its piecemeal growth, they could be almost anywhere. Oh great, and he was on his own, because Wulfric thought the Ministry was safe. Wonderful, just when he could have done with a little back-up here.

The staff toilets proved empty, as did the secondary archive, and the press liaison office. The staff of the security room with all its CCTV monitors had barricaded their door and "weren't coming out even for Jaffa cakes", but very kindly suggested he go and look near the third archive depository and the new non-magical liaison office. "Some of the lads have cornered someone near there …."

"Right. Need any medical assistance?" Timothy asked, eyeing the open corridor warily.

"Er, we're okay for the moment", the voice shouted through the door to him. "Tony's got some first-aid training, so he's dealing with it for the moment. Just be warned, one of them's got a knife."

"Oh bloody brilliant," Timothy grimaced to himself, more and more alarmed. Intruders who'd deliberately made their way to Carrow's office, members of staff attacked, injuries, dead bodies to dispose of …and explain. "Damn, damn, damn", he muttered as he sidled down the hallway towards the offices for the shadow departments. The third archival depository was behind, just near the new typing pool.

The sound of distant gun-fire caused him to pause, before ducking and peering quickly around the corner. It looked clear, so he edged out, Browning at the ready ….more shots, definitely a Cadia IV. He was going to have to learn about that …shouts …something dropping …foot-steps …a ragged figure burst out from the entrance to the typing pool storming towards him, eyes wild, wand slashing down.

The Browning jerked in his hands, two cracks of sound as he fired on instinct, the man jerking, an angry surprised look on his face as he slumped to the floor, red spreading across the grubby white t-shirt he wore under his equally disgusting robes.

Another one down, who knew how many to go; he stepped over the dead man lying in its rapidly spreading blood. Maintenance were going to be severely underwhelmed when they saw the state of the carpets.

Round another corner, still clear, but there were doors to the _Department for_ _Magical Farming and Rural Affairs_ … _Shadow Department for Sports and Entertainment_ …

They appeared to be empty, desks littered with abandoned paperwork, a supply cupboard, chairs slightly askew, a cold cup of coffee and an abandoned sandwich missing a single bite, sitting on is wrapper. Looked like chicken, cranberry sauce and watercress. Fancy.

He hadn't heard any more gunfire, no more sounds of conflict, in fact it was deathly quiet, which was in its way far more unnerving. Did he go back to the corridor, it was only the typing pool beyond and Security were already there after all, no doubt searching the place from top to bottom …or he could …

The supply cupboard behind him erupted with a scream, _"fuck you,"_ and he turned, but too slowly, a body colliding with his as he tried to twist and break his fall. They slammed together into the side of the desk, a jar of pain, but then an arm was around his throat as he twisted…

" _Gonna kill yoooouuu…fucking mud-bloood…"_

…trying to avoid the choke hold, elbow slamming into the assailant's ribs, once, twice, grubby fingers scrabbling at his face. He bit them hard.

A yell of pain, followed by even more swearing. He slammed his head back, barely registering the blow as he scrabbled and scrambled round – elbows, knees, slamming into ribs, stomach, in a mad tangle, pushing and shoving, slamming the butt of his Browning down on the man's neck hard as he got a full-face blast of the individual's complete lack of dental hygiene.

Scrambling into a better position, he did it again, the hands weakly scrabbling at his chest going still, dropping down

Frantically, Timothy scrambled up, chest heaving, as he held the Browning steady and aimed. Cautiously, he kicked the man's discarded wand behind him, just in case. No point finding out he wasn't unconscious the hard way. Behind him, a couple of frazzled security personnel burst in.

"Sir," one of them called.

"I'm fine", Timothy said, "have you got handcuffs, something to tie him up with?"

"Certainly, sir", the female security personnel said, stepping round him, grimacing at the grubby individual slumped on the floor. "I'm definitely getting some lice shampoo too," she muttered to herself as she got to work securing the man's ankles together firmly, before rolling him onto his front and immobilising his wrists.

Timothy watched as he got his breath back. The gaunt man was yet another bottom scraping from Knockturn, a drug addict too, considering the state of his teeth and the sickly pallor of his skin …but it was strange there was just something oddly familiar about him.

He frowned as the security people laid the grubby man out on his side, yes definitely familiar, someone he went to Hogwarts with…Glossop…oh…Caspian Glossop, the arrogant bullying piece of…and now look at him…this had been personal, yes, but how on Earth had he and his little friends managed to get in the Ministry? Somebody must have helped them…

"Sir, we'll take him to lock-up now," the Security lady looked up at him expectantly

He glared down at the remains of his childhood nemesis. "No, this one is _mine_."


	8. Chapter 8

_Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k._

 _I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas._

* * *

 **Author's Note**

Wow this has been a long time coming and for that I apologise.

I had a really fantastic author's note in my head but now I'm actually trying to write it my mind's gone blank. Oh joy. Should have written it down when I had the chance.

Anyway all I can say is that this chapter had really proved to me just how important carefully plotting out a chapter in minute detail is. I got bogged down, and then I was having to un-stick myself and it wasn't always easy either. The whole thing has all been rather discouraging.

Anyway, this is the penultimate chapter of this latest saga of Carrow. I hope you all enjoy it and I look forward to your reviews which I always enjoy reading. Thank you.

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

"What's this?" Caroline glared suspiciously at the rose patterned cup and saucer that had been placed in front of her.

"It's a Sanguine'O'Cino," Annie said.

Which was absolutely no explanation at all in Caroline's opinion. The froth on top of the gently steaming liquid had been coaxed into a vaguely fern like design, and smelt faintly of chocolate underneath the metallic tang of blood. In the saucer were a number of squashy white and pink things. Was she supposed to add them to the drink, or were they just decorative?

"Marshmallows," Annie helpfully supplied.

"This was supposed to be a dive," Caroline hissed across the table, not at all happy.

Annie looked up from her drink, which seemed to have had more than a passing acquaintance with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles.

"Well…yes, I suppose it was," Annie frowned, "but they got a new owner about a year ago and they've really gone up market since. I asked," she smiled.

The _Drunken Weasel_ had been one of those places where you had to check your shoes when you came out to make sure they hadn't been stolen. It really had been one of the grubbiest, stinkiest, most disgusting holes in the entirety of Knockturn, but now…

At the next table sat a trio of hags deep in conversation over cups of tea and suspicious looking meat pastries which had been served on a multi-tiered cake stand complete with doilies. The tablecloth was lace trimmed and the hags all looked as if they had washed at some point in the past week, a fact nearly as alarming as the ribbon trimmed hat one of them was wearing. Beyond them, the wall was smothered with prints of landscapes, still-lives and even an outraged Persian kitten sitting in a basket surrounded with flowers. In the corner sat an old upright piano that had been charmed to play tunes she only vaguely recognised. A bit after her time, really.

"We're not going to get much work done here," Caroline said. "Look, most of the people here probably work for the Big Man. They're not exactly going to be mixed up with the sorts that we're hunting."

They were hunting for gang members, no-goods and this Dark Lady's followers so that they could place these funny little bug things on them. Wouldn't it be a lot simpler to just follow them? She was still struggling to get her head around all this new fangled technology.

Timothy had tried explaining, Carrow had explained too, and that had been even worse, especially with Jon standing behind, rolling his eyes. Apparently the bugs weren't really bugs…or insects either, which was disappointing. She'd been hoping for something like a tiny and magical woodlouse. Jon had winked at her and grinned when she'd asked.

Annie looked over the rim of her frothy cup of possible blood substitute. "Can I finish this first? It's so nice."

"Fine, fine." Caroline sank back in her chair.

oOo

"See, _this_ is more like it," Caroline muttered to her shorter friend.

The Night Market had once been a couple of Roman cisterns that had since been knocked through in places, resulting in a series of spaces filled with pillars that reached up to the darkness of the vaulted ceiling. Around the pillars, entrepreneurial people had set up stalls using upturned barrels, old wooden crates and even blankets spread on the ground to display their wares.

The wares themselves…local legend had it that you could find anything in the Night Market including the candlesticks that got swiped when your house was burgled the previous week. What wasn't stolen was either borderline legal or would get you a stiff sentence in Azkaban. And of course, all this attracted the most varied crowd of anywhere in Knockturn, from low-level burglars trying to shift their ill-gotten gains, those who were unwelcome elsewhere, to the high class members of society looking for a cheap thrill or else dealing in something that would result in scandalous whispers if they were discovered.

"I'm going to look for a lucky rabbit's foot," Annie smirked as she danced away into the crowd, skirting a group of vampires in shabby cloaks who gave her disapproving hisses.

"What on Earth do you need a rabbit's foot for?" Caroline called after her.

"For luck," Annie bellowed over the din of the crowd.

"Well, fine," Caroline muttered, looking around her, and considering her next move.

Choosing a direction at random, she began hunting for suitable victims. A pair of young lads, fresh-faced and innocent, obviously wanting to pass themselves off as tougher than they actually were…a hag who was just a little too interested in her…a heavily cloaked individual with suspicious tattoos on their hands…a thug with an ugly scar across his scalp and the worn down, worn out features of a laudanum addict…

Sidling up beside the addict, she brushed one of the grain sized bugs on to the sleeve of his grimy robes. Seemingly sensing the presence of a living being, and to Caroline's absolute delight, the bug sprouted spindly legs, lurching up the man's arm until it reached the bare stubbly skin of his neck.

Baring down, it pierced the man's neck, injecting the contents of its tiny body under his skin until only a shrivelled husk remained, a little drop of blood trickling down into his collar. With a grunt the addict swatted at his neck grunting about "bloody fleas…wat chu starin' at?"

Caroline sauntered away in search of new victims.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The spectral image of Fudge fluttered above the surface of the pensive, as it begged Caspian Glossop to commit murder in exchange for good galleons, its eyes filled with desperation and fear.

" _That_ was informative," Wulfric muttered from where he leant against the wall.

Timothy gave him a half-hearted glare. He couldn't say he was exactly surprised by Fudge's actions. The man had made it amply clear his feelings with regards to the current political situation within the Magical World, but for him to have taken such steps…cornered rats and all that. He rubbed at his face, feeling as if the weight of the world was bearing down on his shoulders.

Maybe he should go to the Aurors and ask them to be discrete…but no. Carrow had been very clear the man was to stay exactly where he was, and if the Aurors got involved that would be exactly where he wouldn't stay. The mental image of Madam Bones gleefully rubbing her hands at such a prize passed through his mind…and that was before the potential political fallout was taken into consideration.

He winced at the stab of pain above his right eye, the beginnings of a headache slowly forming.

Should he tell Carrow? He considered this a minute. No. Absolutely not. Carrow was a predator; show weakness in front of him and he'd eat you alive.

So, talking to Carrow would only result in making himself look incompetent, which would result in a no doubt gruesome fate for himself, and as for Fudge…the man would probably become an even more obvious puppet for Carrow, something involving brass cog-wheels and organ pipes sprouting out of his back, which would make certain facts about the annoying giant unavoidable, which would also result in political upheaval…

Shame he couldn't turn the little bastard into one of those flesh puppets…Carrow was so fond of…oh. Oh, that was a thought. Yes. _Yes_. He could definitely do that, and then Fudge…as long as Fudge was suitably…

"Tim. Are you all right?"

Timothy flinched finding himself almost nose to nose with Wulfric, a look of concern across his face. "Thought I'd lost you a moment there, staring at the wall as if it were the answer to life, the universe and everything. You know…when was the last time you had a day off?"

Actually, that was a good question. Timothy scratched his head. To be honest he wasn't really sure. He squawked in surprise as Wulfric roughly spun him round and shoved him out of the barren concrete confines of the interrogation suite and out into the warren of passages and rooms that lay beneath the Lodge. Instinctually his feet led him towards the Training Hall where he could hear the sounds of the others working out, though from Chuddy's shouts of frustration, it seemed as if he and the others were attempting to teach Bradley to grapple, with mixed results.

"No, no," Wulfric exasperated grabbed his shoulders propelling him towards the Chapel and the way out near the kitchens, "a _day off._ Not a day being pummelled by ex-squaddies."

Timothy gave a half-hearted glare over his shoulder as he was hustled along by the interfering overly clingy werewolf.

"Oh, there you are, sir," Percy loomed out of the shadows as they neared the Entry Hall a thick wad of files tucked under his arm. "I really could do with you having a look at these…"

Timothy's eyes lit up, a potential escape, but it was not to be…

"Sorry, Percy," Wulfric gave Percy a toothy grin, "Tim's in need of some quality time away from the rock-face of…of…" he waved a hand searching for the right words.

"Needless bureaucracy?" Percy suggested.

"Carrow induced stupidity?" Timothy growled.

"My point exactly," Wulfric beamed, giving Timothy a shove towards the doors, "I'm sure you can manage without him for the rest of the day…"

"Well, erm," Percy wilted under Wulfric's glare, "of course," he finally sighed, "it wasn't anything that couldn't wait a day."

"See, Timmy," Wulfric said as he hustled Timothy out the front doors, "not a problem. The place won't go to rack and ruin without you."

Timothy rolled his one remaining eye. "Fine, but I'm going to visit my parents." With that, he marched off to the edge of the wards, and apparated away with a smart crack.

"Fantastic timing, Timothy," Mum looked delighted from where she stood next to her car in the drive. "Oh, lovely, and Wulfric too. I could do with a couple of strong young men to carry my shopping for me."

oOo

This wasn't how he'd intended his afternoon to go, Timothy gave Wulfric a nasty one-eyed glare as he pushed Mum's shopping trolley down the _tea, coffee, beverages_ aisle, Mum walking before them, her handbag dangling from her elbow as she strode before them with an almost regal bearing.

Wulfric ignored him totally, smiling cheerfully and humming quietly to himself as he walked alongside the shopping trolley.

"Oh…we've forgotten the kitchen towels…"

Timothy looked up to find Mum consulting her list. "Wulfric would you be a dear and go and fetch some please, the quilted stuff, in a four pack of you would," Mum smiled up at the werewolf.

"Yes Ma'am," Wulfric gave her a cheeky salute, before sauntering off back down the aisle and round the corner.

Mum shook her head, amused. "Now…what's next…I've been thinking about baking a cake for the weekend, yes…"

"Mum," Timothy leaned closer, "Mum?" he hissed, "can I ask you something?"

"Aren't you already?" Mum looked up from her shopping list.

Timothy refrained from rolling his eye. "Erm…it's about…I'm not sure," he paused a moment, "I…I don't know how to put this…I need to do something, something I'm not sure about, it will be terrible, but…but if I don't the consequence could be…" he shrugged hopelessly looking up. How the heck was he supposed to explain an assassination attempt that was actually a plot against him by a senior Ministry figure, and now he was planning to blackmail and threaten said Minister. It just didn't bear thinking about.

"I'm taking it that what you mean is that you're having to make a difficult choice in a terrible situation, probably because that awful boss of yours…"

Timothy rolled his eye.

"…has manoeuvred you into the situation in the first place."

"That's not quite…" Timothy began freezing when Mum placed a comforting hand on his arm.

"Timothy," she said looking up at him, "sometimes we find ourselves in bad situations where no matter what we do the choices available to us are less than desirable…"

"Well…"

"…best to follow your conscience, it's matter of can you live with yourself afterwards," Mum peered up at him suspiciously. "What's this about Tim?"

"Erm…nothing…well…" Timothy edged away nervously.

Mum wasn't convinced, "hmm. Anyway, I know you'll do the right thing," she gave his arm a comforting pat, "oh look, here's Wulfric with the kitchen towels."

He couldn't help but think as they made their way towards _baking, cake ingredients_ that Mum's confidence in him was somehow misplaced.

oOo

"…really, Timothy, your dress sense isn't getting any better…"

Timothy slumped back in his chair, letting Mum's running commentary wash over him, trying his best to ignore Wulfric's smirk from where he sat beside him. Why had he thought this was a good idea? Oh yes, maybe he could talk himself out of his idea to deal with Fudge, or think up something better…but no, no such luck.

"…at least let me buy you a nice jumper…"

"Mum." He tried to cut through the monologue before she actually did decide to follow through and drag him into Marks & Spencers for what would probably end up being an extremely humiliating experience, and result in him looking like a younger version of Bernard the English Heritage man. Not that that was a bad thing exactly, but...

"…and you always used to forget to buy socks as well…"

Wulfric sniggered.

Resigned to his fate, he glanced around the little balcony café, trying to avoid the curious stares of the other patrons. Wulfric was obviously finding the whole thing hilarious, grinning at him over his coffee cup. Timothy studiously ignored him while gazing into the distance while Mum continued with her rant. Over her shoulder in the distance was a large poster sporting a horribly familiar logo. British Eagle Airlines. What the heck. He hadn't been informed of this…had he?

He jerked upright, storming over to the offending object, shoppers dodging out of his way, Wulfric trailing after him.

"Timothy? _Timothy_ !" Mum shouted after him but he ignored her intent on the object of his ire. Was this a new advertising campaign or was it a continuation of the old one, the Carrow instigated horror that had invaded the television? Of course it probably was; he ground to a halt in front of the poster. He was being silly. BEA _had_ to advertise themselves if they wanted to continue being a viable business. It was the nature of the game, but did they really have to let Carrow near it?

He glared morosely at the photograph of one of the large and very ugly BEA ships, a back shot, definitely _not_ its best angle, the curvature of the Earth an artful diagonal below, the Moon a distant target above hanging in the velvety darkness of space.

"To the stars and beyond," Wulfric muttered by his shoulder, "I wonder how many people think it's some sort of weird marketing gimmick."

Timothy grunted as he took out a cigarette, glaring down at the list of destinations some of which were expected (London, Paris, New York), some of which most definitely were not (Reykjavik? _Guam_?). And then right at the bottom, almost as if someone was trying to hide it, Luna Primaris.

"I hope people do think it's a bloody joke," Timothy hissed through gritted teeth, "or we'll have all sorts of people banging on the bloody door." He took a deep drag of his Black Russian.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

According to the clock on the wall he'd got approximately four and a half hours until his least favourite activity, particularly on the weekends. Blasted staff meetings, Snape grumbled to himself as he shuffled round his living room, the blasted little servo-skull that Carrow had given him for Christmas trailing after him, at a complete loss what to do with himself in the intervening time.

By some miracle he was completely up to date with his marking, he'd read the latest edition of _Potions International_ cover to cover, and if he began reading _Hemlock – The Housewife's Helpmate_ that would be the rest of the afternoon gone. He'd done that once not long after he'd first begun teaching. The Headmaster had been terribly understanding about it in that over friendly way of his that really meant _"do not do it again, or else…"_

There was always the box of horrors from Carrow. The blasted man had appeared in his office one afternoon, looking like a particularly glamorous dementor, lots of fluttering black silk shot with gold, and dumped the box on his desk, hinting heavily that the contents would be of great interest, and he should endeavour to look through them as soon as was convenient to him.

He'd dumped the damn thing in a corner at the first opportunity and done his best to ignore it ever since. But now…he'd got a few hours.

He pulled the box to him, reluctantly lifting the lid to reveal a jumbled mess of papers and folders inside.

"Oh wonderful," he grumbled to himself, "nothing like organisation." The little servo-skull he'd called Culpepper twittered in apparent agreement.

It quickly became clear that this mystery lab had been tackling more than one project at the time of Carrow stealing its research notes and hopelessly jumbling them together.

Some of it seemed transformative in nature, a melding of animal traits with human, everything from a modified liquid form of the Animagus transformation, to muggle style organ and limb transplants to infusions with vampire blood, highly illegal of course, the sort of thing that would get you thirty years in Azkaban, which was as good as a death sentence.

Then there were the usual black-market brews, various poisons, something that induced miscarriages for the vicious and spiteful minded, a fertility draft for the desperate, notorious for causing multiple births, twins, triplets and more if you were unlucky, not to mention the increased maternal mortality rate and the liver and kidney problems it also tended to cause. Most potion makers, though, tended to gloss over these little details, and when people were desperate they would pay almost anything for the privilege…

And then there was this, a couple of unremarkable little notebooks full of precise handwriting, detailing various experiments for what appeared to be an elixir of some kind, not a common mixture either, the effects of which he wasn't sure of.

 _Armadillo bile…_

More normally seen in those potions dealing with clarity of mind, which was why he kept a good eye on it, especially when the Ravenclaws were around…

"… _stir widdershins five times…"_

Reverse the effect of the armadillo bile, add instability and unpredictability, and…oh yes, it had blown up and taken off their eyebrows.

It obviously hadn't deterred them though, because they had continued with their experimentation with this rather unorthodox concoction.

"… _four turns deosil, seven turns widdershins…"_

Whoever this was they were very determined to get this particular reaction to work…

"… _reduction of fly agaric…"_

Snape narrowed his eyes…armadillo bile…fly agaric…hmm, obviously the "genius" working on this was attempting to make some sort of mind-altering draft or elixir, except that the psychotropic effects of fly agaric were rather delicate and unpredictable when in combination with other ingredients. He knew. He'd tried, when he'd been a teenager, with limited success.

He glanced up at the clock…he'd got a couple of hours…

"Let's try and make some sense of this, shall we?" he smirked at the twittering Culpepper as he made his way to his private lab.

oOo

"…glad to say is no longer a problem," Dumbledore frowned determinedly ignoring Carrow who was trying to get his attention, and the act that Severus was missing. "Obviously, the ban on pole-arms in the corridors between classes has had a positive effect. Now…moving on to other matters…"

Carrow's pointed throat clearing, a low growling sound that grated on the nerves, like fingers being dragged down a black-board, could no longer be ignored.

"Allesandor, are you quite all right?" Dumbledore asked with a pointedly polite smile. "Do you need a glass of water? A throat lozenge maybe?"

Filius hid his smile with a cough.

Carrow looked momentarily puzzled before shrugging it off, carrying on in his pre-determined course.

"Headmaster, with regards to the report on the current state of Hogwarts, I have completed it, and I feel it would be wise to discuss it with you all before I present it to the Ministry."

The staff perked up, eyeing the large pile of papers in front of Carrow with a degree of interested distrust, normally reserved for the more interesting confiscated prank items.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "The Ministry? Not just the Minister?"

"Yes," Carrow gave him a sharp nod, "some of my observations I believe will be of benefit to the new Educational Reform Bill. I have made handouts of the more important points…"

Hiding his annoyance, Dumbledore gave in to the inevitable as Carrow handed round sheaves of paper, clipped together with an interesting little muggle device. How absolutely fascinating; Dumbledore smiled down at the little twist of metal, how incredibly fascinating. Muggles never ceased to amaze him, and look, you could take it off…and put it back on…and take it off…

"…Headmaster? ALBUS!" Minerva practically bellowed in his ear.

Dumbledore gave a reproachful look. "I'm not deaf you know…isn't this clever?" He put the little device back on the sheaf of paper. Minerva gave him an extremely unimpressed look. Oh well, he smiled at the rest of the staff who were giving him odd looks, Severus's chair still glaringly empty. Where was the lad? Probably nose deep in an interesting brewing problem, knowing him.

He sighed softly as Carrow continued. "As I was saying, I can find little to fault the passion and dedication which you all bring to the classroom…"

Well, wasn't that nice? Albus smirked to himself; but there was always a "but". He looked around the gathered staff, who seemed to be mildly surprised by Carrow's approach, but were otherwise eagerly lapping it up.

"…given the resources you have to hand, that is…"

That was cheeky; Dumbledore narrowed his eyes. Hogwarts was one of the finest magical educational establishments in Europe, possibly even the world.

"…the budget allocated to Hogwarts has little altered since 1823 and is now utterly inadequate for the running of the school. If not for the numerous bequeathments and donations the school has received over the years, the school would not be able to afford to open its doors…"

Which was an old problem Dumbledore was only too aware of, the immovable rock, the millstone he carried around with him the instant he'd become Headmaster, though it had definitely been an issue when he'd been deputy too…

"I intend to do something about it," Carrow barred his teeth in a manner that boded ill for the future.

"Legally, I hope," Minerva said tartly.

Carrow almost looked offended. "Of course. The changes I believe the school needs require a considerably larger annual budget…"

Leaning back in his chair, Dumbledore listened in increasing apprehension to Carrow's growing list of suggestions; extra teachers to take on classes for the first through fourth years…an increased curriculum including non-magical subjects including English, mathematics and muggle science, geography, languages…an area of the school set aside to teach children aged 7 to 11 as day students…teaching advanced classes beyond the age of 17…offering adult classes even, in the evenings…

"And you think you can persuade the Ministry to cover the cost of all this?" Filius butted in, his high voice cutting across Carrow's rumble.

"Of course," Carrow gave them a supremely confident smirk, "leave that to me."

Which did not fill Dumbledore with confidence at all. "Where is Severus?" he asked, hoping to divert attention.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"I don't know why you're still worrying," Neville muttered, wincing, as below them in the duelling pit of the Defence classroom, Padma took a wild swing at her opponent Daphne Greengrass, catching the other girl's knuckles causing her to drop her practice blade. Cringing and near to tears, Daphne scooped up the blade with her other hand, doing her best to carry on; but she was much clumsier with her left hand, and Padma easily overwhelmed her.

Clapping at the other student's victory, Ron shrugged. "Don't be ridiculous, Nev. Think about it. A crawl through the Forbidden Forest using a map devised by Uncle Sev aided and abetted by Moody and, er… _Sir_ ," he glanced nervously to where Carrow was currently picking the next two contestants (Nott and Dean Thomas). The large man apparently hadn't heard them or was at least currently completely ignoring them.

"True," Neville conceded as Nott slumped sullenly down into the training pit, Dean following him, tugging nervously at his practise uniform. "I hope the Professor's going to be alright...I'm sure with Madam Pomfrey looking after him, he'll soon be right as rain."

"Yeah," Ron sighed, slumping against the railing.

Neville shot him a concerned look. "Of course, whatever we're going to meet out there will be, err…pretty crazy…probably, but think about it…"

Dean deflected a particularly nasty attack by Nott, getting in an upper cut…

"…no matter what's going to be out there we can't do anything about it so all we can do is prepare to the best of our abilities, work hard, and then just accept whatever happens."

Ron sighed heavily as Dean launched an attack of his own, forcing the Slytherin onto the defensive. "Say, Dean's pretty good with a sword. Shame we can't persuade him to join the Defence Club."

"Changing the subject," Neville softly sing-songed, as Dean managed to disarm Nott, earning him an approving nod from Carrow.

"So?" Ron grumbled. "I'm entitled to my nerves…what if there's a giant…or full grown trolls…or even a dragon or something. What then?"

"Why don't you write all your worries down and we'll go through them, think up solutions and stuff. Hermione and Greg will _love_ it," Neville grinned, "come on, it'll be fun…oh, this isn't going to be…"

Ron shot him a dubious look, as Tracey Davis clambered down into the pit, closely followed by Lavender Brown who seemed to have required a bit of gentle persuasion from Carrow, consisting of a shove in the back.

"This is going to be a complete waste of time," Ron muttered.

"Isn't it just," Neville sighed as the two of them watched the two combatants take their positions. "I had Lavender for practise drills once. Never again," he shuddered delicately.

Ron nodded sympathetically as Tracey went on the offensive, causing Lavender to squeal and lean back, thrashing wildly with her practise blade. Tracey, obviously annoyed, didn't hold back, catching the other girl a stinging blow across the ears. Lavender dropped her sword with a shriek, arms protecting her head as she tried to run away around the edge of the duelling pit, Tracey in hot pursuit, much to the general amusement of the class.

"DETENTION!" Carrow's thunderous roar cut through the laughter. "An absolutely disgraceful display, Brown. You will return to this classroom tonight after dinner, where you will relearn your attitude. I _will_ make a warrior of you."

"Granger, replace Brown if you would."

Ron couldn't help but notice that Tracey looked almost as petrified as Lavender had when Hermione climbed down into the pit.

oOo

Brown did not appear for her detention. It was infuriating, but to be expected of someone of her character.

So he set out to collect her from her most likely bolt-hole, the few students still wandering around at this hour scuttling out of the way as he strode along. The Fat Lady had apparently developed something seriously wrong with her eyes, considering the rapid blinking she appeared to be afflicted with.

A tsunami of sound crashed over him as the door swung open revealing the warm and cosy interior of the Gryffindor common room packed with students.

"… _not going!"_

"…Lav, you've got to! The more you put it off the worse his punishment will be. Carrow's _really_ strict," Padma practically shouted at her friend, obviously deeply concerned.

"Quite right, Miss Patil. Indeed I am," Carrow smirked at the stunned Gryffindors as they all turned round to stare at him. In a corner, Hermione looked up from her book, and glanced at Brown for a moment, before returning to the joys of _Advance Transfiguration for the Perplexed_.

"Come along, Brown," Carrow said into the crypt-like silence, "the longer you put it off, the longer your detention gets."

Brown slowly rose from the red brocade pouf she'd been slumped on, shuffling forward as if she were walking to her doom. Such drama over so little.

"March, Brown," he growled, utterly unimpressed, as she dragged herself into the corridor.

Reaching the classroom, he thrust a practise blade into her hands, ignoring her horrified expression. "Rest assured, Brown," he leant down until they were almost nose to nose, "I will never give you _lines_ ," he sneered the words, "now, _in_."

Shoving the stuttering and extremely reluctant young woman into the duelling pit, he activated the combat servitor (on its lowest sitting. He wasn't _that_ cruel) and raised the wards designed to keep in the more interesting creatures he like to fight.

Predictably, Brown screamed and dropped the blade, cowering against the wall of the pit as the servitor stalked closer clanking and hissing as it went, the nostrils of its nose, one of its few remaining human features, flaring as it caught her scent.

And then it pounced, Brown only just ducking in time, as knife like talons scoured the wall of the pit just inches above her head. Picking herself up, she ran screaming around the edge of the pit, trying to scramble out, only to scream again as the wards delivered a painful shock.

Carrow gently rocked on his heels, humming under his breath a triumphal hymn of death and destruction to the enemies of Humanity. Maybe he should read inspirational scriptures to the girl, bolster her spirits and her encourage her in right thinking. Throne knew she needed it.

"Pick the blade up and fight, Brown," Carrow glared down at the panicking young woman, "show me what you're made of. Fight the fear, fight the weakness that's overwhelming you."

The servitor launched again, catching Brown across the scalp, blood now marring her hair as she scrambled back across the duelling pit, frantically throwing herself at the practise blade, almost dropping it in her haste as she fumbled with it clumsily.

Gripping it in both hands, she held it before her, the tip of the blade trembling madly. It was almost as if she expected the servitor to obligingly impale itself for her.

The servitor went in for the kill, swiping and snapping as Brown screamed and cringed, eyes screwed tightly shut as she desperately thrashed in the general direction of the servitor. She even managed to score a few lucky hits. The servitor backed off, circling its now slightly more dangerous prey.

Brown stood there shaking and heaving, on the verge of collapse, eyes wide as she followed the movement of the mechanical creature with the tip of her blade.

The servitor lunged and screaming, Brown buried the blade in to its torso, the servitor slumping to the side as it powered down. Shaking and sobbing, Brown slumped to the floor.

"Hmm," Carrow frowned, "it will do, I suppose…" He jumped down into the pit, ignoring the sting of the wards, pacing over to the servitor to inspect the damage. The training blade easily came free, revealing not too much damage. Excellent.

"I think another round or two, just to be sure" he smiled down at Brown, her expectant desperate look disappearing like smoke on the breeze.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The world lurched sideways in a dazzling smear of colour. Blinking rapidly, Snape tried moving his head, except that proved a mistake as the dancing shapes warped and vibrated, swooping off to some distant infinity in a nausea inducing display. With a groan, he shut his eyes, trying to hold onto the contents of his stomach, pain spiking just above his right temple.

What had happened? He remembered actually going through all that rubbish Carrow had dumped on him and then there'd been something…those notebooks…and then the lab…and he'd been doing well, and little Culpepper had at last learned the difference between dittany and parsley when retrieving jars of ingredients for him…he didn't remember any explosions. Cautiously he touched his face with a hand. See, he'd still got his eyebrows.

"… _Severus…finally awake…"_

Poppy's voice boomed in his ear oddly distorted and muffled as if she was underwater. Something cool was placed against his lips.

"… _drink up…good lad…"_

He took a sip but it was so vile tasting, whatever it was, that he gagged, choking as the holder of the glass or whatever it was refused to budge, forcing him to swallow the rest of the disgusting stuff. Exhausted, he sank back, the world fading away…

Something was tapping his nose, just gently, almost a caress really. Blearily he opened an eye ready to give whoever it was a piece of his mind only to find himself staring directly into the glowing eye-sockets of Culpepper. The little servo-skull had tucked itself under the blanket with him. Why Poppy had allowed it, he had no idea.

"Oh Merlin," he groaned as he dragged himself into a vaguely sitting position, Culpepper landing in his lap with an indignant squawk. The hospital wing lurched dangerously around him for a moment before settling down. The lab notes…he'd been following them through, seeing how they'd gone about creating this hallucinogenic philtre, considering the coloured auras the various trappings of the hospital wing had acquired.

He'd got so close to finishing as well. He'd just added the final ingredient, crushed dandelion roots, when there'd been a hiss and a cloud of orange and lavender steam…

"Ah, Severus," Poppy called from the doorway of her office, "thank Merlin. We were starting to get worried about you.

"What were you thinking, experimenting on your own like that," she fussed with his blankets, plumping his pillows up. "Fortunately, between Albus and myself, we were able to concoct a possible antidote. It seems to have worked. So…how's your eyesight now?"

Severus paused; should he tell her about the beautiful green and purple aura she was currently sporting? "Err…mostly normal. Nothing's randomly changing shape at the moment."

"Oh good. Excellent," she smiled, "I'll go and get you something to eat. You've been out of it for two days, you must be famished."

Severus stared after her. Two days? There apparently was a silver lining to being in the hospital wing after all; he'd completely missed the staff meeting.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The coffee was wonderfully hot as Timothy took a cautious sip; not the best quality, but who was he to complain? Hopefully a steady supply would get him through what was probably going to be an extremely dull but stressful day. Shame Wulfric couldn't be here, but he'd been dragged away from all the "fun" by his American handlers. Shame.

The weapons expo was packed with people milling around, making last minute changes to stands, and potential customers who'd got let in early on special VIP passes. The stalls looked almost the same as last year too, grey, beige, anonymous low key, except for the one with the performance clothing that had gone for silver fittings and a back board with a print of a sunlit alpine scene.

"Pushing the boat out a bit, aren't they?" he nudged Maria Curtis.

Curtis, looking severe and professional in a navy blue dress-suit and pearls, gave the stand a critical once over. "It looks rather smart, I think…and sensible too. You could wear their products while mountain climbing, I suppose."

"Hmm," Timothy agreed, "we've kept to much the same as last year, haven't we?"

"As long as Carrow hasn't interfered," Curtis sighed as they turned a corner towards the section of the convention devoted to personal armaments. "I've done what I can to keep him at bay, but you know…" She rolled her eyes.

Timothy grimaced and took a fortifying gulp of coffee. He knew only too well. "There's a lot of people down there," he nodded at the crowd ahead, "wonder what's going on."

Curtis frowned, her steps speeding up. "Whatever it is, it's happening near our display. Come on."

Timothy hurried after her, his heart sinking. His premonitions of doom were only confirmed when he finally managed to shoulder his way through the crowd.

"Oh, Merlin," he groaned as he took in the scene before him.

The Aquila Ind. booth was much as he had expected, grey arched panels and glass display cases with antique gold fittings, the latest models of Cadia and the new Solaris proudly on display laid out on grey crushed velvet. But in front…he put a hand over his eyes. Maybe he was hallucinating and it would just go away.

No. No such luck.

The _Gilded Lily_ (or as Carrow preferred to call her the _Spear of Retribution_ ) sat there in all her glory, her black paintwork polished to a glossy sheen, her gilded decoration shimmering in the artificial light, swags of flowers draped across her front and along her sponsons, giving the air a hint of rose and jasmine. He watched in horrified fascination as the florist and her assistant held up an enormous wreath to Carrow. The large man who currently looked as if he'd escaped from a "best dressed Satanist" competition plucked the floral creation from their hands effortlessly, slipping it over the barrel of the forward facing plasma gun.

"Is that satisfactory, sir?" the florist asked as Carrow stood back to admire the effect.

"Indeed it is." Carrow rumbled, as he delicately stroked his finger bone necklace.

The florist almost squeaked in delight, pulling a disposable camera out of her pocket as her assistant began tidying up their equipment. "Okay if I take pictures?" she smiled up at Carrow. Carrow apparently agreed, as the woman was soon snapping away, a manic gleam in her eyes.

Seeing this as a golden opportunity to intervene, Timothy stalked forward, ignoring the sniggers and whispered comments from the gathering of rival company sales reps and VIP customers.

"Sir, I thought we'd agreed to _leave_ the _Spear of Retribution_ at home," he said through gritted teeth.

"Ah, Timothy," Carrow smiled down at him, all predatory teeth. "Doesn't she look magnificent? See, I was quite right that we should have her as the centre piece of our display."

Timothy resisted the temptation to go and find a wall to knock his head against. "Until we're thrown out and _banned_ for violating the rules of the convention," he said instead, "this could be construed as glorifying war!" He gestured to the armoured abomination, its gilded putti giving him reproachful looks.

"Not bloody likely," an older gentlemen in a dark suit muttered slightly too loudly.

Timothy ignored him. "See, the organisers are here already," he pointed to where Curtis was attempting to do damage control with several people in logoed polo shirts and lanyards with staff ID cards. To say their expressions were flummoxed was putting it mildly.

"I doubt we'll get many orders for tanks," he said as the argument between Curtis and the organisers escalated, though Curtis seemed to be gaining the upper hand.

"Maybe, maybe not." Carrow seemed utterly unfazed. "I have made sure the sales staff have been suitably educated as to her not inconsiderable abilities. Those who live to wage war will see her for what she truly is."

"Right," Curtis stormed back over looking both furious and triumphant, "it stays." She turned to Carrow. "And don't do this again!" Turning on her heel Curtis stalked off, presumably to find something nice and calming, like more coffee. Relieved, Timothy began to follow her.

"A little job for you," Carrow called after him. Timothy turned to find the Giant Lump holding a wad of papers. Puzzled, he took them, and regretted it instantly. On the front was a lurid image of the Gilded Lily driving through a giant laurel wreath while firing most of its guns. Underneath…

… _the glorious Thunder II Class tank…built under the auspices of the God-Emperor of Mankind…crush the enemies of Humanity…_

"All that is required of you is to stand near our competitors stands and hand out these leaflets to their customers," Carrow smiled down at him conspiratorially, "and then they will be amazed at our products' brilliance and beauty and flock to our display. Yes?"

 _No_ was Timothy's first thought, but he was unable to come up with a more diplomatic answer as Carrow shoved the leaflets into his arms, spun him round and gave him a little shove in the direction of the armoured vehicles section.

Wonderful, Timothy fumed to himself, here was a golden opportunity to make a complete and utter fool of himself. Maybe he could stuff the bloody things in a bin and just _claim_ he handed them out. Looking over his shoulder, he found Carrow watching him over the crowd, icy green eyes unreadable. No, maybe not.

Well, sod. He hunched his shoulders and shuffled off to his doom.

The competitors' tanks and various armoured vehicles were so different…sleek, streamlined...absolutely no visible rivets…

Squat and low-lying, the one he was currently looking at was a nice sensible sludge green; it was also oddly faceted as if the designer had a personal grudge towards curves. Even the main gun barrel had an octagonal profile. The underside also carried on the angular theme, he noted, as he crouched down for a closer look, great-coat pooling around his feet.

"Can I help you?" a voice enquired suspiciously to his right.

Looking round, Timothy found sensible black boots and trouser clad legs. The legs were attached to a thin man with close cropped brown hair who gave him a terrifyingly polite smile as he stood up.

"I'm just looking at the moment…" Timothy tried smiling, but predictably it came out wrong, his scar tugging, and the sales rep barely hiding a wince. "Why the, er…"

"The angular shape or the low profile?" the sales rep asked helpfully. "The angled planes help break up its radar profile, and well, the low profile, so it's harder to spot, you know, so it's not a _ginourmous_ target unlike that what-ever-it-is you Aquila people are hawking this year."

That stung; Timothy glared. Alright, the _Gilded Lily_ was an abomination but it was their abomination, and he'd lay good money that if it met this squat ground hugging tank, the _Gilded Lily_ would be the victor. In fact, he could just imagine the black-gold horror driving over the top of the smaller tank, crushing it into the mud with its colossal weight alone. Unless, of course, it used one of its many guns…

"How does it stand up to energy weapons?" Timothy asked, "Or how about implosion devices? No?"

The sales rep spluttered indignantly. "Why would it, they don't exist…"

"You know," Timothy said, beginning to smirk as he pulled the dreadful leaflets out from the front of his dolman, "I'm sure if you asked Mr Carrow nicely, he'd give you a tour of our _creation_ , but in the mean time I do have some information you can have," he thrust the leaflets into the sales rep's hands. "I'm sure he explains all of the _Spear of Retribution's_ special features in these. Just ignore all the religious allusions."

He gave the stunned man an encouraging smile, and then beat a hasty retreat.

"He… _hey!"_ the sales rep shouted indignantly after him as he made for the exit and a nice soothing smoke.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"You're cheating," a shrill voice declared, full of youthful indignation.

Carrow glanced up to find Tiffany standing at the edge of the classroom duelling pit, hands on her hips, glaring at a husky girl who was currently using her school tie to hold back her hair. Fortunately, acromantula gore blended in quite well with Slytherin colours.

"We need another one now," young Felix pouted, tail twitching irritably, "I didn't even get a go."

Sighing, Carrow left his paperwork. The next juvenile acromantula attempted to fight back, but its mandibles barely scratched his skin as he ripped them out causing the giant spider to screech and skitter away across the duelling pit, pawing at the remains of its mouth parts.

"There you are, children," he smiled rounds the young eager faces, "attack it in groups of two or three. Remember not to get bunched up."

Tiffany and Felix let themselves down, short swords held at the ready as they made clumsy plans to deal with this new quarry.

Sensing the danger, the acromantula sidled along the wall of the pit as the pair circled round in opposite directions, attempting a pincer attack on the unfortunate creature. It almost worked too, Felix managing to get a good blow in to the unfortunate creature's eyes, before it managed to leap out of the way, scuttling across the pit, scrabbling desperately at the barred gates to one of the containment cells in a bid to get to safety, a futile act as the two circled back, intent on their quarry.

Smiling at their antics, Carrow strolled back to his desk, Artemis looking up from where she was sprawled on the floor. Some might see his current situation as demeaning to someone of his status but that was utterly short-sighted; to have such a golden opportunity to shape the next generation of Humanity and direct them towards the light of the God-Emperor in such a direct way. Surely this was a privilege few experienced.

And even though he was locked in this ancient and barbaric age, things were gradually improving. Even now, his desk sported a fast and reliable cogitator complete with satellite link to the Aquila offices and even the Ministry network he'd had installed in his offices. There was even a holo-projector. Truly the God-Emperor provided.

Currently the holo-projector displayed data collected over the last few months by the Aquila satellites of the magical energies that criss-crossed Holy Terra, an intricate cobweb of unseen energies that flowed through the crust and filled the very air…and now, added to that, he also had nearly three months worth of data pertaining to the tracking devices that the vampire coven had planted on suitable victims months ago. It was proving to be informative to say the least.

Between them the vampires had managed to tag over two hundred people, and their movements were proving to be instructive indeed. Most had stayed within the confines of this tiny island, but a few had travelled to the continent. A number had gone silent, a quick investigation proving death the cause, drug overdose, a heart attack, a stabbing, such was the life of the criminal underclass.

The rest…he adjusted the controls bringing the focus purely on Great Britain…yes, the rest had stayed within this small island, but had travelled widely within it, a multitude of dots indicating the locations of numerous magical communities including Hogsmeade and even Godric's Hollow…except for two anomalous locations which were most definitely magical.

He frowned at the holo-display as he adjusted it further. This definitely bore further investigation…

"What's it doing?" an exasperated voice split through his concentration. Looking up, Carrow found the young students gathered round the duelling pit, watching in fascination as the Acromantula did its best to shield itself from attack with its legs, refusing utterly to react to even the most vicious of attacks.

Truly, the quality of the local Acromantula population was greatly reduced; he shook his head sadly.

oOo

Now he'd seen it all. Timothy stared as one of the lunatics from the R&D department floated past at a sedate pace in what looked like a cross between a mobility scooter and a small dingy, a trio of discs down each side that spun frantically as they kept the ungainly conveyance aloft, violet lightening flickering between them and the runic seals that covered the hull of the dinghy. And in full view of the main entrance as well; he ground his teeth in frustration. He turned and gave the two security personnel manning the gate a meaningful stare.

"Hey, don't blame us," the tall rangy one grumbled, "we've told them repeatedly the car-park's a stupid place to take a spin in their weird contraptions, but do they listen? Hell, no."

His colleague nodded in agreement. "It's a wonder we haven't had anyone killed or badly injured," the broad and burly one said, "first time they came out with one of these crazy things, they lost control and shot across the visitor's car-park at head height and went straight through the hedge."

"Yeah, I'm surprised no one got decapitated, "the tall rangy one agreed.

"But didn't they manage to damage the roof of someone's car?" broad and burly pointed out.

"Oh yeah, all scratched up with a massive dent. Bet that looked interesting on the insurance claim. Collision with out-of-control flying rocking chair while stationary," tall and rangy said with a smirk, "the rumour mill suggested that the, err… _funny farm_ may have actually paid for the repairs themselves."

The floating chair/dinghy device floated back round a little faster this time, the driver obviously gaining in confidence as they attempted to put the thing through its paces, breezing past in a soft whoosh of ozone tinted air.

"Looks like they've fixed the stabilization problem," broad and burly said.

Timothy watched with narrowed eye as the thing slalomed in between the ornamental trees with only the slightest hint of a wobble. He had a suspicion that if they could perfect this vehicle and increase the speed by about 200% Carrow would demand one, armoured to the hilt of course, with machine guns slapped on the front…and talking about Carrow…Timothy groaned as he spied the large man striding purposefully across the car-park dressed, to his horror, in full power armour. What was the giant idiot thinking…

Glancing round, he found the two security guards had retreated to the safety of their little brick built office, and were watching him through the window. Broad and burly gave him an encouraging thumbs up.

"Timothy," Carrow boomed, flashing a shark like smile, eyes alight with a manic enthusiasm which instantly had Timothy's nerves on edge.

"I have found her," the giant man announced triumphantly.

"Her? _Her!_ You've found _her_?" Timothy perked up. "Where? When do you…we…"

"Retrieve her? Carrow finished the sentence. "Today, now in fact. I have everything planned, including the Aurors attending the scene to take the prisoners off our hands." He turned, strolling back across the car-park, Timothy hurrying to keep up with his long strides.

There was so much here that was an unknown; were there wards? Guards? Had she put in place muggle protections? She wasn't exactly shy about crossing boundaries…and wouldn't it be better to do this say in the evening or early morning? Statute of Secrecy and all that.

Seemingly sensing his inner turmoil, Carrow smiled down at him, something almost indulgent in his expression. "I have it all in order, Timothy. I even arranged with the DMLE for the collection of any prisoners." He stalked away, obviously looking forward to the coming conflict.

oOo

Big Bertha came to a final shuddering halt, and Timothy released his death grip on the armrests of his seat. A gentle and considerate pilot Carrow was not.

The atmosphere inside the passenger space was tense as his team and the vampires undid their harnesses and readied their weapons. He'd made his reservations clear about this whole _"operation"_ but now they were at ground zero as it were, there was no place for hesitation or second guessing. All he could do now was proceed and hope the Police didn't arrive too early and get in Carrow's way.

The back ramp lowered to reveal scrubby wasteland dotted with elder trees, buddleias and broken concrete. Beyond stood a galvanised security fence, that separated the waste land from a small industrial estate composed of rows of brick built units of various sizes, their metal roofs a garish red, now faded and peeling.

Carrow strode past in all his power armoured glory, his sheer bulk causing the ramp to vibrate and flex as he strode down it, the beloved rotator canon slung on his back, its ammo belt swaying gently with the large man's movements. Timothy glared at it in horror. Of all the bloody stupid things! And why did the giant idiot think he needed three spare boxes of ammo for the damn thing? What did he think he was taking on, an army?

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, Timothy smiled grimly to himself as he and his squad hurried after Carrow, Wulfric, Juno and the others dogging his steps, guns at the ready.

Carrow barely even paused at the fence, simply shoving his armoured fingers in between the galvanized uprights and pushing them aside as if they were made of damp cardboard. The over-sized finger impressions he left behind were, in Timothy's opinion, going to give someone quite a few sleepless nights at some point in the future.

Thankfully, the Dark Lady had picked a small warehouse on the end of a row near the waste ground, probably trying to be as secluded as possible, but now, of course, it played into their hands.

Leaving Carrow and the vampires behind, Timothy and his team darted down the side of the building, desperate to get in place by the rear fire-exit before one of the inhabitants looked out of a window and spotted Carrow lurking outside.

The fire-door had also once been red but so much of the red paint had peeled off it was now more of a dull steel grey.

"So…what now?" Hecate murmured softly from where she was crouched behind Juno.

"We wait for the signal," Juno muttered back.

Hecate didn't seem convinced. "Erm…okay."

"Don't worry," Timothy breathed, giving them both a pointed glare, "whatever it is, we'll know."

oOo

Carrow barred his teeth, blood thrumming at the thought of combat. Maybe, _maybe_ …bringing his beloved rotator cannon to bear, he fired several short bursts through the flimsy steel roller door that marked the main entrance of this small manufactorium unit.

The faint sound of music and chatter from within abruptly ceased, drowned out by the blessed roar of the cannon…then deafening silence, then faint sobbing, screams…

Shoving his fingers under the roller door, he heaved it up, the thin metal buckling out of shape with a scrunching squeal, the vampires pouring into the space beyond, quick dark figures with their guns at the ready.

He strode into the dim space, taking in the scrambling people, the piles of equipment, the vehicles parked up, waiting to be loaded with illicit goods, flashes of coloured light as "magic" was thrown about…

A heavy load slammed into his side, almost causing him to stumble, rotten bony hands of something not quite human scrabbling at his armour. This had just got _interesting._ Carrow bared his teeth in a wild feral grin.

oOo

The strange aircraft had arrived just as Ernie had been carefully manoeuvring the forklift across the yard with its precious cargo of spare parts. Ernie swore blind afterwards over a pint that the thing shouldn't have been able to fly, because of you know, not being _aerodynamic_.

But right now all that Frank really cared about was how bloody ugly the damn thing was and the giant armoured robot thing that had just strode out of it accompanied by loads of paramilitary types…and the terrifying way it had just torn through the security fence like it was damp paper…and that fence had even survived Dan backing the van into it rather hard…

"Ern…come _on_ , Ernie, we need to get out of here," Frank hissed as he sidled round the fork lift, trying not to attract the attention of the armed nutters.

Ernie just sat there mouth opened as he stared at the invaders. To Frank's horror, the giant armoured robot thing pulled out an enormous gun that wouldn't have looked out of place mounted on a tank or something and took aim at the steel roller doors of the unit several doors down.

"Come on," Frank said through gritted teeth, grabbing Ernie and bodily yanking him from his seat in the forklift. Scrambling, they ran towards the sanctuary of the workshop. Frank hammered on the button to lower the roller blind. "Come on, come on," he growled as the thing crawled down at a snail's pace.

"Don't just bloody stand there," he snapped at Dan who was wasting time peering out at the crazy people, "ring the bloody police!"

oOo

The roar of the rotator cannon was unmistakable. With a jab of his wand, Timothy vanished the fire-door leaving a dark rectangle. Wulfric dived through first closely followed by Athena, ducking as a the familiar green of the Killing Curse flashed past her head, quickly giving her response firing a quick burst with her Cadia IV.

More spell fire flashed past.

Looked like the inhabitants meant business, Timothy thought, as he dashed in, closely followed by Juno and Hecate. He charged into the dark space ducking and dodging as hexes and curses whizzed past his ears angrily pinging off industrial shelving and shrink-wrapped pallets of cardboard boxes, wooden packing crates, the chatter of the team's Cadia's adding to the cacophony.

Angry, desperate, frightened, the denizens of the warehouse retreated only to become pinned down by a line of tables where a production line of sorts had been set up, stray cardboard boxes and jars and packets full of luridly coloured sweets littering the tables and the surrounding floor.

Probably full of enough artificial colours and sweeteners to give a room of small children hallucinations for a week, Timothy thought as he ducked behind an incomplete pallet of the packed cardboard boxes getting a few shots of at someone who was attempting to sneak around it.

A woman wearing a grimy white coat over jeans and a tatty jumper patterned with flowers flung herself to the floor, arms protectively covering her head. So he sent a quick stunner at her, cuffing her in case she came round and got any bright ideas.

The spell-fire continued, but now the element of surprise was largely gone they were beginning to get bogged down, much to Timothy's frustration. Seeing an opportunity, some of the denizens crawled under the tables, managing to escape into the internal office of the place, barricading it behind them.

Now feeling more secure, they began flinging hexes and curses of all kinds through the broken window and doorway. Which probably wasn't the safest thing to do. Timothy warily eyed the packing crate he'd been forced to take shelter behind. It appeared to be full of jars of some sort of boiled sweet of a particularly violent shade of blue, now spilling out broken onto the floor, along with the straw that had been used as packing material. He had a nasty feeling they weren't your average sweet.

Across the open space someone had installed a cheap greenhouse and set it up as a laboratory full of potions equipment and the sort of glassware that wouldn't look entirely out of place in a muggle lab. It had also been heavily warded in case of accidents, considering the way it was shimmering every time a hex or curse hit. Pale frightened faces stared out at him where the lab technicians had taken shelter under one of the benches.

A particularly vicious purple hex flew past the crates and hit the lab wards, causing them to hiss and flicker, the faint ringing never quite dissipating, and beyond he could just discern the sound of chanting as if there was some sort of ritual magic taking place in there.

Another volley of hexes pinged of another one of the crates, splintering it. Pink smoke began to drift up from the wreckage, followed by the odd bubble. This was beginning to get extremely dangerous and he didn't really fancy dying by violent boiled sweets...or whatever it was that they were cooking up in there. Knowing his luck it would be some grotesque monstrosity that only Carrow could deal with, the resulting aftermath of which would no doubt give him nightmares for weeks.

This needed to stop, but how? Maybe a coordinated effort, he thought as he changed the magazine on the Browning…he signalled the others, all together on my signal...fire. He let loose at the office window, the others following his lead, the combined gunfire in such a confined space deafening. The spell fire faltered a moment and then stopped as those inside the office took cover, the sound of chanting faltering slightly but still somehow managing to continue.

Taking advantage, the ladies slunk closer to the window before the office occupants could recover sufficiently. Pulling a smoke grenade from her webbing, Athena activated it and then tossed it through the broken window in one smooth motion. A second later there was a sharp bang, vivid blue smoke billowing out of the window and doorway.

Something lunged out of the cloud of smoke, screaming, an inhuman wail that hurt the eardrums and rattle the brain as a figure loomed into view with melting blue flesh, and strange tentacle like protrusions that writhed desperately before sinking back into the mass.

"Fire," Timothy roared shooting again and again into the mass. The others quickly followed suit their Cadia's rapidly turning the once human thing into a lumpy puddle.

"Was that…" Wulfric began.

Several more figures staggered out of the door, coughing and choking, their skin now streaked with bright blue, skidding in the puddle of their former comrade as they tried to escape. But the vampires got to them first, wrestling them to the ground, dis-arming and restraining them before hauling them over to join a small but growing group of prisoners. Timothy couldn't help but notice that Annie (probably) was arranging them in a pattern.

Taking point, Athena dodged round the doorway into the remains of the office beyond, Juno and Hecate closely following her, their Cadias at the ready. Timothy followed them, eyes watering slightly in the remains of the smoke grenade. Hopefully he wouldn't be spending the next week trying to scrub magical blue dye off his face.

The office was utterly trashed, the wall opposite the window pock-marked and cratered from the gunfire. The furniture had been stacked at one end; a filing cabinet lay on its side, its drawers hanging half open. Beyond it stood a large grey metal cabinet, and on the floor…

Timothy stepped back warily from the ritual circle that had been hastily inscribed on the floor. The thing was now slowly pulsing blue, still clearly active. What the smoke grenade had done to it, he had no idea. What the circle was originally intended for…well that was anyone's guess, it had been so hastily drawn. He'd leave it to Carrow to deal with…

…was it him or had the cabinet rattled slightly? "Don't step inside _that_ ," he muttered to the others as he sidled round the room, carefully edging towards the cabinet in as nonchalant a fashion as he could manage. Reaching out Timothy slid the door open with the tip of his Browning only to come face to face with the thinnest and oddest looking women he'd ever set eyes on, horns curling up and back from her temples to circle her ears, chin too pointed, eyes too large and dark...

She erupted out of the cabinet, a feral snarl of pure desperation on her face, knocking him flying. Sprawled on his back, Timothy grabbed hold of her ankle as she went past, yanking as hard as he could, gasping as she fell awkwardly on top of him. Shrieking in fury, she fought back as he tried to restrain her, a seething mass of painfully sharp elbows and granite hard knees that seemed to find every sensitive spot possible.

Snarling, Timothy managed to get a grip on her horns just in time to stop her from head butting him. Twisting, he forced her head down to the floor, heaving his weight on to her back to pin her down.

"Here, I've got them," Wulfric said as he raced round the still pulsing ritual circle, waving a pair of handcuffs.

Timothy heaved himself to his feet, knees creaking, as Wulfric cuffed the furious and still struggling Dark Lady. He was getting too old for this, and he wasn't even _thirty_ yet.

oOo

Re-animated corpses just weren't as resilient as they should be, Carrow sighed, as he managed to rip an arm off the second one as it tried clumsily to bodily grapple him to the ground as the third dead (but far too lively) hung off his back, scrabbling for any sort of purchase it could get on his armour in an attempt to peel it off. No, these things were far too flimsy, he thought, as he slammed an elbow back, causing something to snap.

The second troll came in for the attack again, mindless and lumbering, hindered by its missing limb. A punch to the throat left the brittle remains of the creature's spine protruding from the back of its neck, fluids sluggishly flowing from the normally incapacitating injury. To his faint interest, the troll took a few lumbering steps before finally collapsing in a twisted heap beside its fallen comrade.

With a heave, he flipped the last troll off his back, managing to get a grip on its skull as it lunged for him. Interestingly this one appeared to be better made. Were the others botched first projects and this one the final success, or was this one the carefully crafted first one, the others being rushed in their completion afterwards?

Hopefully, one of the soon to be prisoners would be able to answer his questions on the matter; in the meantime…he gave a twist, the head of the troll practically coming loose in his hands.

An explosion of noise erupted behind him and he turned to find a dozen or so police cars and a van pulled up further down from the warehouse, their lights flashing, serious looking enforcement officers pouring out and getting into position, some armed with guns, though not of the quality of those produce by Aquila Ind. of course.

Carrow blinked; he hadn't ordered these, though he wasn't objection. "Gentlemen," he boomed, "and ladies. I have need of your services…"

A series of cracks announced the arrival of Auror Hewitt and his squad from the DMLE.

"Marvellous," Carrow smiled gleefully. Things were coming together rather nicely. "Auror Hewitt, if you and your people would proceed to remove the prisoners, the officers will provide you with cover…" he gestured towards the non-magical law enforcement who'd been slowly creeping forward. "Don't be shy," he waved the troll head at them, "I'm sure there's enough for everyone."

oOo

The man leaped up, pulling a knife and slashing at the slight body-glove clad figure of Annie as he charged for the back door, causing the slight vampire to stumble over her own feet as she tried to avoid the potentially lethal attack. Balance lost, she fell backwards over a pallet with a crash, sending trays of cling-wrapped things across the floor.

Pulling himself up with a snarl, Timothy gave chase, back out through the rear fire-exit and down the side of the warehouse into the open air where police milled like a kicked over ant-hill, multiple vehicles taking up the space, lights flashing.

Seeing this, the man dodged through the hole Carrow had made in the security fence, swearing a storm as his robe caught on sharp metal, yanking it free with a nasty tearing sound. Timothy dived through after him, nearly tripping over a loose lump of concrete. He set off at a sprint as the escapee contemplated Big Bertha for a moment, before changing his mind when old Methuselah pointed a gun at him from the front ramp.

Haring across the scrubby wasteland, he scrambled over a chain-link fence and shoved his way through the screen of lelandii that had been planted on the other side. Timothy heaved himself over, and shoved through the trees as quickly as he could, the branches scratching and tugging at his hair and clothing, and out into the car-park of a large out-of-town shopping centre.

Desperation lending him speed, Timothy took off after him, keeping low as the wizard began to slow down to a trot and then a quick walk as he attempted to blend in with the wary shoppers. Until, of course, he looked back over his shoulder.

Snarling in frustration, Timothy could only watch as the man slammed through the double doors, their automatic opening mechanism too slow to keep up with him, bowling people over in his wake.

The shopping centre seemed to be a mid-eighties affair with "fun" pastel coloured fittings in geometric shapes to enliven its otherwise generic design. Sort of pseudo classical, Timothy thought distractedly, as he dodged around a family with a double buggy.

Heaving for breath (wizards weren't know for their dedication to fitness), the escapee was obviously beginning to panic, looking around wildly for an escape route in such unfamiliar territory…and then he tried running up the escalator. Not familiar with them, he stumbled, falling flat on his face, pulling himself up and scrambling the rest of the way.

Timothy charged after him, taking the steps two at a time, desperate to catch this person before he could do something dangerous. The man, only yards away now, exhausted and beyond desperate, was now actively panicking. Snarling, he grabbed the nearest shopper, a middle-aged man who obviously enjoyed his food. Grabbing him around the neck, he spun round, wand stabbing painfully into the sweating man's neck, shoppers scrambling out of the way, shouts and screams as they begun to realise the danger of the situation.

"Stay back," the wizard snarled, "I'll do it…I really will."

Timothy didn't even hesitate, the blue warp fyre pooling in the palm of his hand with barely a thought. With a flick of his wrist he flung it at the wizard. The moment it left his hand, he realised his mistake, the eyes of the muggle going wide with shock. But it was too late, the small ball of blue fyre hit the wizard in the right shoulder, moving through flesh and bone alike, the smell of burnt bacon wafting into the air as the wizard collapsed to the floor with a terrible scream, leaving his shaken captive standing there, gawping like a dazed fish.

Oh _Merlin_ … _the Statute of Secrecy_ …

Stomach feeling as if it had just been plunged into the depths of the Antarctic, all he could do was carry on. "Excuse me, please," he said, face rigid as he held in the gibbering horror that threatened to overwhelm him. The traumatised muggle just stared at him uncomprehending, so Timothy stepped round him. The escapee lay groaning on the floor, clutching at his wounded shoulder, so he pulled him by the good arm, collecting his wand and patting him down for any more concealed weapons. The last thing he wanted at the moment was a fight with a desperate idiot armed with a knife. Heaving the still uncooperative and swearing prisoner round, he found the last person he wanted to see coming up the escalator.

"Ah, Auror Hewitt," Timothy hid his grimace, "I do believe this fine gentleman is yours to deal with."

"What the bloody hell did you chase him in here for?" Auror Hewitt hissed, glancing around suspiciously, as if the stunned shoppers were hiding the answer.

"I didn't," Timothy snapped feeling quite indignant, as if he'd do something so bloody stupid. Auror Hewitt sneered as he and a colleague secured the prisoner, stalking off with the still struggling man.

"All right?" Wulfric said right next to his ear, almost causing him to jump out of his skin.

"I've done something awful," Timothy said, "something truly awful."

Wulfric gave him a quizzical look.

He glanced round, unseeing. "I've broken the Statute of Secrecy, Wulfric… _the Statute of Secrecy_ …"

Timothy found himself being practically dragged along to a small café whose tables and chairs sprawled across the open space to the railings. The staff looked as if they couldn't decide whether to panic or pretend they were shut.

All he could do was watch in a daze as Wulfric parked him at a table near the railings, coffee and even a cake seeming to materialize out of thin air. Mechanically, he took a bite but it was like ashes. "The Statute of sec…"

Wulfric held up a hand. "So that time you tried hexing the ketchup bottle in that restaurant doesn't count," Wulfric didn't seem to be taking this very seriously, "and the manager came over and told you off because they were already temperamental and it only made them harder to refill and his staff didn't appreciate having their fingers bitten by condiments."

"Yes, but that's Godric's Hollow," Timothy glared, "it's different."

"Right," Wulfric grinned, obviously not getting the gravity of the situation, "and normally I'd agree with you, but Carrow changes everything, and really how long do you think it's going to last, with him thundering round the landscape? Everything he touches he changes, for better or worse."

Timothy considered this a moment. It pained him, but Wulfric did have a point.

"To be honest, I'm surprised you're not more upset about the mess back there," Wulfric jabbed a fork in the general direction of the car-park.

"Hmmm?" Timothy blinked. "Oh, he organised this, he's in charge, so…not my problem." The cake was actually quite passable after all.

"That's the spirit," Wulfric grinned.


	9. Chapter 9

_Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k._

 _I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas._

* * *

Author's Note

Here it finally is, the last chapter!

Looking back on this story I'm so unhappy with it. I think I lost direction rather, half way through. So at some point in the future I may very give it a very heavy edit and probably at least partly rewrite part of it. Oh well

In other news, I've started on a new story, a straight HP time-travel fic, that I should hopefully start posting soon though I haven't decided on a name for it yet.

Carrow will return in the future!

Thank-you all for your continued support, your reviews and your encouragement. I really appreciate it.

* * *

 **Chapter 9**

"…but are the Muggle err…please-men even capable of such a thing?" Fudge smiled indulgently around the table.

The meeting room fell silent, Madam Bones and the muggle law-enforcement liaison officer turning to glare at the Minister, Dumbledore giving him a deeply disappointed look; but Carrow's condescending smirk was the worst. Fudge wilted like butter on a hot plate, slumping in his seat as the discussion of the previous day's events carried on around him.

"…been consulted with from the very beginning. Now we've got novel recreational drugs that aren't legislated against washing around who-knows-where, that are going to have who-knows-what effect."

"…promise you," Madam Bones soothed, "the DMLE have a dedicated team of potioneers who are already analysing the samples taken from the warehouse as a top priority…"

Timothy glanced at the Minster again. Oh yes, it looked like Fudge desperately wanted to be elsewhere given the way he was eyeing the door again, wanting to hide in his office or possibly even call it a day and escape early to his favourite restaurant. Which would be just typical of the man, Timothy sneered to himself. _No nice late lunch for you, Minister_ , Timothy thought, he had plans. As soon as they were done here, he was going to grab the annoying man and somehow get him to the Lodge. It was the only part of his plan he hadn't really thought through, so depending on how well he could wing it…or he could just kidnap the annoying man…

"…Timothy, file 13/06/95.642 if you would…"

Startling slightly, Timothy found Carrow gazing down at him with his unreadable green eyes.

"Of course sir," he said as he frantically dug through the pile of paperwork (junk) that Carrow had insisted was absolutely vital to this meeting. Handing the offending file over, he did his best to ignore Carrow's knowing look as much as he could.

oOo

Predictably, Fudge tried to make a quick getaway from the meeting, striding as quickly as his short legs would allow towards the lifts. Getting to the lattice screen door just as it was about to close, Timothy wrenched it to one side, sliding into the lift beside the Minister, Wulfric close behind him. Fudge backed into the corner, eyeing them warily as Wulfric mashed the button for the Entrance Hall.

"Minister," Timothy smiled down at the smaller man, his scar pulling it into something that had Fudge pale-faced and sweating, "I've been wanting to talk to you alone…I have something I need to show you."

Wondering if Fudge would fall for it, Timothy watched the Minister who had now backed into the corner, holding his ridiculous lime green bowler hat in front of him as if he could use it as a shield, his eyes flicking fro Timothy to Wulfric who was standing in front of the lift doors in his best "relaxed" stance, amber eyes cool and unfriendly.

"Show me?" the Minister squeaked.

"Yes, show you," Timothy smiled doing his best to imitate Carrow at his worst. Apparently it worked, as Fudge went a funny putty colour, his shoulder blades practically trying to dig their way out of the lift.

" _Main Entrance Hall to the Ministry of Magic,"_ the female voice of the lift declared, in far too cheerful a tone.

As the lattice screen opened, Fudge attempted to bolt but Timothy grabbed him, looping his arm firmly through his, pinning the Minister to his side as he marched them through the hall towards the apparition point. Nobody gave them so much as a second glance as he whisked them away to the Lodge.

oOo

"What are you doing?" Fudge squawked as they went past the kitchens, through the vampires' den. Seeing an increasing reluctance to go on, Timothy grabbed his arm and practically dragged him into the new tunnel system, past the training halls and the chapel to the little underground railway system. Giving the Minister a shove, he climbed in beside him, Wulfric sitting behind them, breathing down Fudge's neck as he set the conveyance in motion.

As they wound through the tunnels, Timothy's nerves finally caught up with him. Would everything be in place? Would it have the desired effects? Would it make the annoying little man worse? He crushed that train of thought as they barrelled through a cavernous hall that stretched into the distance, huge stone pillars holding up a distant ceiling. Someone had actually managed to get a couple of portacabins down there and had set them up near the railway, light streaming from the upper office windows…

No, he needed to keep on track, stay focused on the mission.

Grimfaced, he dragged Fudge off the train into the underground network of Aquila R&D labs, past Jon's lair and into the area set aside for Carrow's personal use. Opening a grey fire door, Timothy shoved a still protesting Fudge into the lab beyond, into the chilly fug of formaldehyde and chemicals and something dead, quickly following as Wulfric took up guard outside.

Only to be brought up short by one of the technicians who had apparently decided the best way to show off her new bionic legs was to do a little jig, the mechanism in the calves and ankles shifting and spinning behind their protective casing as she whirled round…

"Oh…er…Mr Faulks," the technician smiled, obviously flustered, brushing down her skirt, "we're all ready for you."

"Ready for what?" Fudge asked.

But nobody took any notice of him as the technician skittered over to a shrouded lumpen object surrounded by strange machines and banks of instruments. She pulled aside the shroud, revealing what was once Caspian Glossop, naked as the day he was born, slumped unseeing in a large dentist style chair, straps pinning him in place as he stared unseeing into the distance, drool running down his chin.

Beside him, Fudge tensed. "Wha…what is the meaning of this?" the small man snapped, obviously trying to pull himself together.

"You know _exactly_ what this is about, Minister Fudge," Timothy hissed, bending down until he was almost nose to nose with the shorter man as the technicians began preparing Glossop's body.

"I don't…I don't know what you're talking about," Fudge stuttered, trying to back away, eyes flicking from side to side as he attempted to watch the technicians as they shaved Glossop's scalp _and_ keep Timothy in his line of sight at the same time.

"Oh, I think you do," Timothy slowly smiled.

Already pale and sweating, Fudge's face went grey.

"I think you know exactly what this is about. After all you hired him to kill me," Timothy snarled.

Fudge's shaking worsened. "You…you can't prove anything."

"I don't need to," Timothy growled, "I have all the proof I need, a signed confession and the memories of you meeting Glossop in the _Happy Hag's Button_ , you offering him money in return for roughing me up, your subsequent meeting at a rendezvous in the alley, the actual exchange of money, the suggestion…or more a hint that my death could only be a _highly desirable accident_ …am I ringing any bells yet?"

Fudge was shaking like a leaf, the loose skin that hung of his chin shivering, eyes wide and horrified, his breath shallow and quick.

The sound of a circular saw drew the little man's attention back to where Glossop was sitting. Another technician, a short stocky man with thinning hair had donned a full face shield, a flip-up plastic thing, while he delicately cut round the top of Glossop's skull, with his decidedly non-magical tool going straight through the bone with a grizzly grinding sound.

The cutting complete, the woman with the bionic legs delicately flipped the top of the skull up and off, setting it to one side in a clinical white tray for later. Glossop sat unmoving in the chair, his brain exposed as the technicians prepared a monstrous device that loomed over him, brass arms and tentacles hanging down tipped with hypodermic needles, surgical blades, and strange rune encrusted probes.

"What are they doing?" Fudge whispered, eyes wide with horror, as the arms and tentacles began to shift and move, lowering towards Glossop's exposed brain tissue, and plunging into the brain matter.

"They're transforming him into a sort of flesh puppet," Timothy said, ignoring Fudge's look of uncomprehending horror. "I'm sure you've seen them about. They're something of a speciality of Carrow's."

"Test one…initiating," a third technician, dark complexioned with serious looking glasses, announced.

Glossop's body began to twitch and spasm, his head jerking and shaking as his limbs lolled and spasmed painfully. "That appears to all be in order," the short and stocky technician nodded decisively as he watched another screen, "the general nervous system seems to be in reasonable condition…though there is some damage to his toes…"

"No matter, they're coming off anyway," Bionic legs technician pointed out. "Next test?"

"Of course…test two…initiating," dark, glasses wearing technician said. Glossop's mouth clumsily worked, eyes suddenly snapping open, milky eyes rolling back into his head…

"AaaaaYYyyyyy…"

Fudge attempted to shuffle backwards towards the doors…

"eeeEEEEEeeeeEEE…"

Sensing the escape bid, Timothy whirled, managing to grab the minister by the scruff of the neck…

"IIIIiiiiiiiiiiIIIIIIIIiiiiiiiiyyyyeeeee…"

…wrestling Fudge back round. The Minister was surprisingly strong…and desperate, for his size…

"oooOOOOOooooohhhhh,"

… " _no no no no_ ," Fudge shrieked as Timothy pulled him closer.

"YYyyyyyYYYyooooohhHHHHhhhhh."

"Now listen to me," Timothy snarled not letting go of the Minister's arm for a moment, "you thought you could dispose of me through some ludicrous cheap plot, but you forget your place. You're just a puppet for Mr Carrow, nothing else!"

Fudge crumpled in defeat, shaking like a leaf, big fat tears beginning to leak down his cheeks.

But Timothy wasn't finished. "For now, Mr Carrow wishes to leave you _untouched_ , but I swear on my magic, _if_ you pull off a stunt even remotely like this ever again, it will be _you_ sitting in that chair, _this_ will be your fate," he heaved a breath, so much pent up anger finally being expressed after so long, ignoring the messing sobbing of the Minister, "now _watch_."

oOo

He ignored the concerned call of his personal secretary as he charged into his office, the door slamming shut behind him as he dived for the waste paper basket. He shuddered, as he emptied the contents of his stomach, unable to hold back any longer, the basket vanishing the mess with a wet pop. He could still hear the ghastly crunching sound as they removed Glossop's legs, playing over and over in his mind…and when they started draining his blood…he returned to the basket…

It was as if the world had burned and turned to ashes, leaving nothing but this grey shell he now inhabited behind, and he had thought things had been bad before, Fudge thought, as he slumped down in his chair, face buried in his hands. Beside him, the waste paper basket gave a sad little gassy sigh.

How had things come to this? How had he gone from being one of the most powerful men in Magical Britain to this…this…weak spineless hollow thing that jumped when told to by…by _mudbloods_ and..and...he could barely look at himself in the mirror nowadays without being overwhelmed with feelings of such self loathing he was surprised the mirror didn't shatter.

Hadn't he got some of that bottle of fire-whisky left…he pulled a desk drawer open, sifting through the contents for the contraband alcohol he'd managed to sneak past Fa… _him_ …and he'd thought it would be so easy to get rid of the jumped up little mudblood, but no, the giant monster had shaped and twisted his secretary into a image of himself, murderous, dangerous, without thought for decent Wizarding-kind. What he had just done to the poor Glossop boy…so undeserved.

Nothing.

The drawer wielded all sorts of miscellaneous stationary but was glaring empty of alcoholic beverages. Had Faulks been through his desk? It would just be typical for that nasty little kill-joy to confiscate his one little luxury.

Nothing but scrap paper and junk mail. Damn, damn, damn, bloody thieving little mud-blood been through his…ah…there, right at the back. He dragged the bottle of booze out, pieces of parchment and spare quills spilling onto the floor as he began a fruitless search for a glass. Admitting defeat, he took a deep swig straight from the bottle, coughing as the fire-whisky stung his throat.

He hadn't any real options left at all, nothing political at all. He certainly couldn't bribe his way out of this mess. He needed to get away. Could he just retire?

Probably not, if Carrow didn't approve it in some way. Not to mention Mrs Fudge, he cringed, who definitely wouldn't appreciate the dip in her quality of life that would occur on his Ministry pension. He glanced at the silver framed wedding picture that perched on his desk showing him and her in happier times. Things had been so good, they'd lived lavishly, travelled all sorts of places on his Ministry budget, Eastern Europe to see the dragons, Egypt to see the exploratory digging of the Goblins, that wonderful cruise on that Wizarding paddle steamer up the Mississippi. The food had been glorious. He'd had to magically expand his trousers twice that trip.

But now…now…he'd got Carrow's creepy underling breathing down his neck. Didn't the little waste of space know he should be grateful to his betters for even having a Ministry job in the first place? No, of course not.

But it wouldn't be too long before he had Carrow back, he gave a shuddering sob, the giant monster back in the driving seat, making the Ministry do things he didn't want it to do, getting rid of all the old reliables and …and destroying all the perks of being a Ministry employee, the guaranteed jobs for young and upcoming family members, the cash under the tables, the helping friends out with their business interests…all gone…all gone…

He took a large swig of whisky.

And then when he got home, just to put the tin lid on all the horribleness he was forced to deal with on a daily basis, the Missus started moaning about this and that, his long hours, how he was never at home, the complete lack of perks. How could he get it through to the daft old cow that the next holiday they took they'd have to pay for out of his comparatively modest wages.

Maybe…maybe he could run away, dump it all and steal away in the middle of the night, change his identity and skip the country. Settle somewhere nice and quiet, Outer Mongolia maybe…but no, Carrow would track him down, find him and drag him back…

He bought the whisky bottle up to his lips only to find it shockingly empty. How…but he was sure it was a nearly full bottle…it slumped from his fingers to the floor with a dull clatter.

Options…options. He was so thoroughly out of options.

There was always one option left, a dark and increasingly hard to ignore part of his mind provided, you could always…

Fudge pulled out his wand looking at it as if for the first time. Could he…could he really take his own life…could he really do this? Not a killing curse…but a cutting curse maybe. Slowly, he brought the wand up to his neck, eyes screwed shut as he steeled himself to do the deed.

No…no, he couldn't do it. In desperation he tried again tears beginning to run down his cheeks but no, he just couldn't. He was too scared…but he desperately wanted this pain to end…a sob wracked his body as he buried his face in his hands.

He was so cowardly, so weak, he sobbed, he'd failed at everything so badly. He'd let himself down and his family down and…and…Father would be so ashamed.

A knock came at the door, but before Fudge could refuse entrance, his personal secretary put her head round, looking thoroughly flustered, "Sir, I've been calling you, you have an important visitor."

A familiar rumbling came, muffled by the door and Fudge's heart clenched in terror as his secretary turned with a smile for this most unwelcome of visitors. "The Minister will see you now, sir."

More rumbling, a titter of laughter from the secretary, and Carrow emerged into his office, somehow squeezing his enormous frame through the small door, seeming to chase the light from the office, his black and gold brocade robes with fur trim, worn over elaborately engraved goblin armour, giving him the impression of a particularly despotic dark lord, the chain he always seemed to wear around his chest seemingly moving of its own accord.

"Minister," Carrow smiled down at him displaying far too many teeth, cold eyes calculating, assessing, "have I caught you at an inopportune moment?"

Fudge cringed in his chair as he tried to toe the empty whisky bottle out of sight under the desk, but he knew Carrow knew that he'd been drinking. "No, no of course not," he twittered, inwardly cringing in embarrassment at the sound of his own voice.

"Oh good," Carrow purred, putting the large book he'd been carrying down on Fudge's desk with an impressive thump. Fudge eyed it warily.

"As I promised," Carrow drawled, "I have come to present to you, and discuss of course, the report on Hogwarts that you desired."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Drawing himself up, as if preparing for battle, Dumbledore knocked on the door to the DADA classroom, otherwise known as Carrow's lair, where the monstrous man plotted his dark and devious deeds no doubt.

"Enter," the muffled voice was unmistakably Carrow. A part of him had been almost hoping that the giant man had been absent, away on one of his numerous errands, but no such luck. Peering around the door cautiously, in case of flirtatious tigers, Dumbledore edged his way in.

The DADA classroom always reflected the personality of the current incumbent and Carrow was no exception, though predictably his mark was of a more strident and permanent nature. While the classroom sported the normal desks and chairs, behind them lay the duelling pit, looking rather battered nowadays, and suspiciously blood stained. Surrounding it was a training area complete with racks of short-swords and other weapons, mats stacked against the wall and heavy looking bags hanging down. It all looked rather well used.

Carrow had, of course, seen fit to decorate the walls and even the ceiling with "inspirational" images. Inspirational that is, if you wanted to learn in detail how to disembowel your enemies. He shook his head sadly as he walked past that particularly graphic wall painting. They were predictably almost impossible to remove unless you were prepared to do major damage to the wall itself, and Dumbledore had a nasty suspicion that whoever he managed to persuade to take on the position next year was probably going to demand to move rooms.

At the front of the classroom, Artemis had sprawled herself across the teacher's desk, paws and tail hanging off in an inelegant jumble. Best to leave her be, he thought, as he quietly slipped past her to the office door and the heart of Carrow's realm.

Carrow himself was hunched over his desk, his quill skittering across parchment he had somehow managed to shoehorn on in among the muggle computer things and the stacks of books, student homework and assorted scrolls of parchment.

"I will be with you very shortly," the large man muttered, sounding thoroughly distracted.

Sighing, Dumbledore glanced round the incredibly cluttered office. At some point it appeared as if Carrow had run out of shelving space for his books, and so had resorted to stacking them on the floor, along with rolls of parchment stored in boxes and piles of battered journals bulging with scraps of paper held closed with knotted string. How Carrow managed to manoeuvre in here without causing an avalanche he had no idea.

And in among all this sat the most remarkable device. It appeared to have once been an occasional table, but was now repurposed, a hole carefully cut in its top to allow the machinery that now lived underneath to poke through so it could produce an image of the Earth itself made all of light. It really was quite remarkable, he thought, as he stepped closer to admire the slowly revolving globe.

The Earth slowly spun before him in all its glory, its continents and oceans covered with a delicate tracery of lines that in places were so dense they formed globs of light, like Iceland (but why did it extend up and down the Atlantic? How curious) while in other places there was just the barest cobweb of light. He watched curiously as Australia drifted past. This was utterly marvellous and very beautiful, but what was it all in aid of? Carrow _never_ did anything without some sort of reason.

A large hand reached past him to do something incomprehensible with the controls. To his acute disappointment, the delicate tracery of light vanished, leaving behind the spinning globe of the Earth, now only sporting an occasional bright patch.

"Now the background magic is removed," Carrow rumbled somewhere above and behind him, "tis possible to see the results of human activity."

"Oh," Dumbledore looked at the globe with renewed interest as America drifted past blotched with bright patches, mainly on the coast corresponding with cities most likely, but there were some in the interior, magical settlements maybe, or were they places of high magical concentration?

Europe and Africa drifted past…just the odd pinprick on the UK; they were all rather spread out after all. There were larger, more concentrated areas on the continent, one of which he was certain was the Romanian Dragon Reserve…

"This…dark lady," Dumbledore said, not sure whether this was entirely wise, "is it entirely necessary to have both a muggle and Wizarding trial? She is after all a witch."

Carrow gave him a look. "She had committed crimes everywhere regardless of the abilities of the communities, and therefore she will be tried by both authorities, in a joint trial."

Dumbledore jerked back, horrified. "But the Statute of Secrecy…" he whispered, not sure why he was even bothering mentioning it to Carrow.

Carrow's expression revealed nothing but mild curiosity. "It will take a while to organise of course, much negotiation is needed, and there is the continuing process of gathering evidence against the woman. It could be several years before the prosecution is ready to go ahead."

Really? Dumbledore's mind reeled at the thought. "But what do we do with her in the mean time? I mean…we can't exactly keep her locked up all that time…ah, she is being kept locked up, isn't she?" He took in Carrow's uncompromising expression.

Two years? He blinked at the revolving globe; what evidence were the muggle authorities collecting to take so much time?

"We need to build an air-tight case against her," Carrow said as he gazed down at the spinning globe, "it is vital that we have everything we can against her, that every depth of depravity that she descend to is winkled out and examined carefully…already there had been a case of a small child dying as a direct result of the drugs she manufactured.

"I only recently received this information, you understand," Carrow looked particularly grave, "this young child found what she thought were ordinary sweets in her mother's bag and of course ate them. Unfortunately they were doctored with a hallucinogenic that we discovered in the raid on her headquarters. She died as a result. She was only three."

"That's awful," Dumbledore looked up at him horrified.

"And she won't be the only one," Carrow said, "all of these unnecessary deaths can be laid at this Dark Lady's feet. The sooner the joint investigation team can bring to light all her crimes the better…and if we can make it a permanent part of the DMLE…Madam Bones would be not unpleased with the idea I feel. A necessary addition to our security, I think."

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed, feeling rather bamboozled. Joint Investigation Team? He hadn't heard about this. What in Merlin's name was going on? For what felt like the thousandth time, he cursed Fudge's spineless nature and his lack of ability to stop Carrow running amok.

"This is sombre conversation for another time maybe," Carrow abruptly changed the subject, leaving Dumbledore scrambling to catch up, "tell me, you are more familiar with the geography of Holy Terra…of Earth in this age than I. Where is this?" he pointed to a glowing pin-point of the east coast of America."

"Oh…ah, yes," Dumbledore pulled his mind from the chasm it seemed to have fallen into, "I do believe that is New York, has a rather large Wizarding population, I believe, though I haven't had the opportunity to visit in some years, unfortunately."

Carrow hummed to himself as the dark expanse of the Atlantic ocean passed by, revealing Europe and Africa. "And this?" A large finger jabbed at a splodge of light that flickered and danced.

"That's what the Muggles call Lake Victoria," Dumbledore smiled, "so it means that that is one of the international magical schools, Uagadou School of Magic, in the Mountains of the Moon, you know. I've visited before on an international cooperation mission for the ICW. It has the most beautiful edifice carved into the very mountain. Magnificent," he added with a smile.

Carrow grunted, a deep rumble of sound like a mountain hiccupping. The globe slowly span on revealing the bulk of Eurasia, Asia and India.

"This has been puzzling me," Carrow rumbled as he fiddled with the controls, "do you see?"

Dumbledore blinked in surprise. There in the middle of what was probably Siberia was a hole in the net of magic, not just a gap in the delicate all-encompassing tracery of ley-lines but a distinct hole in the magic of the Earth.

"Goodness," he said, eyebrows rising in surprise, "that looks…rather alarming. I understand that back in the forties and fifties that the Soviets did some rather risky experimentation with magic of various kinds, but it's only a rumour, mind, and they are so secretive of such things so we'll probably never know for certain. I wonder…"

But Carrow was already fiddling with the controls again spinning the globe back and then zooming in on an area of the Middle-East centring in on a flickering swirling nexus of magic that seemed almost confined to a strict boundary.

"Babylon," he said before Carrow could even ask, "I'm sure of it. In among the ruins of the old city there's rumoured to be some sort of creature held in captivity for millennia so that it can't escape and destroy the world…or at least the surrounding area. You never know with these old legends."

Carrow's expression was unreadable.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The others looked no happier than he was to be out of bed at this Merlin cursed time of the morning. Ron grumbled as he stumped his feet and shifted his pack and his Cadia, eyes still bleary with sleep, his scalp itching from his helmet. Damn thing. Colin looked like he was still asleep, meandering along in front as they weaved their way to the starting point of this, the very last task of the tournament.

"This looks like it," Hermione said, disgustingly wide awake and cheerful. Ron glared at the back of her helmet. She'd stencilled a skull on the back of it, which was busily glaring back.

"TEAMS," Carrow bellowed from the other side of the rough rocky clearing, "to your places."

With a groan, Ron shuffled over with the others to the sign that stated _Ave Imperator_. Someone had carefully doodled an Aquila underneath, probably Carrow. Ron glared at it; he really wasn't feeling this, something to do with having a book thrown at his head by an over-enthusiastic Ripper as a wake-up call, and no, it being a paperback did _not_ make it okay.

Beside him, Greg yawned so widely his jaw cracked.

" _Team Dungeon Crawlers_ ,"

There was a ragged cheer somewhere to the right.

" _Team Malcolm_ ,"

To the left a lone "yeah!"

" _Team Ave Imperator!"_

"Yay," Rom mumbled vaguely waving his arms in the air, trying not to duck as the revolting servo-skull got far too close for comfort, its glowing eyes baleful in the early morning light.

"This is the last round of the Tournament." Carrow gave them all a severe look. "Your task is simple, to follow the route on your maps," the large man smirked, "the first team to reach their finishing point will be the winners."

Simple. Ron glared suspiciously. When Carrow said simple…

"The tournament begins…NOW!" Carrow roared.

With a ragged cheer, the Dungeon Crawlers sprinted off into the forest, Malcolm following more carefully.

"Come on, guys," Hermione said, peering at the map which she had placed in a clear muggle plastic envelope thing that hung around her neck. "It looks pretty easy going for the first few miles, but after that…I think we're going to end up over there somewhere," she pointed towards one of the many craggy slopes that hemmed in the Forbidden Forest.

"Oh joy," Ron muttered as they fell into formation, cautiously entering the forest.

oOo

"You're cheerful this morning," Remus commented with a smile.

"And why shouldn't I be?" Sirius asked as he sauntered along, broom on his shoulder, taking a deep breath of the fresh air blowing in off the lake. "I just know it's going to be a good day," he grinned.

Remus gave him a suspicious look.

"Oh come on, Mooney," Sirius said, "it's the last one!" He shrugged with a winning smile.

"Not if they make it an annual event, it's not," Flitwick, their fellow victim in this school-wide madness grumbled, as he trailed along beside them without his usual affable smile. "Hopefully, this time no one will be seriously injured."

"It's going to be a nice sunny day," Sirius offered in the face of such logic, trying to lift the mood.

"And we're going to be stuck in the forest," Flitwick pointed out. "Not much sunlight is getting through _that_ foliage."

"I still say it's going to be a nice warm day," Sirius gave a decisive nod, refusing to be derailed from his cheerful frame of mind, "and… _and_ I know that the celebration party is going to be absolutely brilliant!" He swaggered away.

"Oh Merlin," Remus sighed to himself as Sirius practically skipped to their meeting point. "Should we intervene, do you think?" he asked the shorter man.

Flitwick thought about it for a moment. "No," he finally smiled, " we do have our hands full here after all, and I'm sure Albus and Minerva and the others are more than capable of dealing with whatever nonsense our dear Sirius has concocted for us. They'll be fine." Flitwick gave Remus a comforting pat on the arm.

oOo

The narrowness of the path they were following had gone from concerning to bloody terrifying sometime ago, and now Ron was forced to inch his way forward, clinging to the rock face as they all shuffled slowly along, the weight of his equipment threatening to peel him away from the cliff-face at any moment.

"Bloody hell," Greg muttered behind him, "if this goes on much longer, I think I'm going to need clean underpants."

Ron could only sympathise, spluttering to himself as a particularly springy heather that was growing in a crevice managed to whack him in the face as he sidled past.

"Halt," Hermione warned from somewhere up ahead. In front of him, Luna stopped so quickly that Ron nearly lost his footing. Sweat trickling down his brow, he clung tighter to the rocks.

"There's a cave," Luna turned to smile up at him pale eyes brimming with excitement, "I didn't know there was one up here. Full of bats and all sorts of interesting creatures I'm sure."

 _Oh wonderful,_ Ron groaned to himself. Knowing his luck there was a bloody mountain troll in there, and he was going to end up having the odd limb torn off. He'd never hear the end of it from Mum.

Suddenly, Luna began moving again and he followed, round a slight corner where the path began to widen out until it formed a sloping gravel covered ledge which was almost as dangerous as the path that led up to this cave, little more than a horizontal crack in the rock face.

Hermione perched beside the entrance, carefully examining the map. "According to this, we go through the cave to get to our next destination…but it doesn't really tell us anything about the cave itself." She hunkered down, squinting into the darkness of the cave. "I can feel a breeze coming out," she said, expression dubious, "we're going to have to take our packs off though, guys, and feed them through separately."

No one seemed particularly thrilled by this.

"I'll go first," Colin piped up.

Rather Colin than him, Ron thought, as the smaller boy crawled through the gap, pulling himself along on his stomach, pushing his Cadia before him, a head torch firmly applied to his helmet.

"I'm through," he whispered back, glimmers of light visible every so often as he looked around.

"Right," Hermione shucked off her pack, "I'll go through next…"

One by one, they braved the low opening crawling through as they pulled their packs through after them.

Actually this was better than he had thought. Ron blinked owlishly as he gazed around at the passage. It had stayed narrow, forcing them to drag themselves through, until the ceiling suddenly sloped up, disappearing into deep shadow, the floor dipping away, twisting around a sharp and shadow filled corner.

Taking point, Greg sidled up to the bend, his Cadia ready to take care of anyone or anything that decided to object to their presence.

"Clear," he muttered. Ron sidled forward, slinking round the corner to find the tunnel suddenly tall and narrow, an ominous drift of small rocks and other debris partially blocking their way.

He was no expert on caves and rocks and such, but he couldn't really spot anything dodgy looking, and so he scrambled up the rubble to survey the passage beyond.

There was more of a breeze up here, almost as if the mountain they were currently inside was breathing. He could almost imagine the walls of the cave flexing with each…no, bad thoughts. That way led madness and Hermione kicking him up the backside. "Clear," he muttered back to the others before clambering down the other side to stand guard.

The passage dipped down again in a dangerous gravel slope, stupidly dangerous, Ron thought as he braced his hands on the walls of the passage, even as his feet tried to slip out from under him. Obviously Uncle Sev was still, on some level, out to get him.

"Oh, bloody _sod_ ," he snarled as his feet finally slipped out of control and he lost his grip. Scrabbling, he tried to halt his fall, spreading his weight as best he could, attempting to grab hold of anything as he slid past. Only to be brought up short by a sudden suffocating weight as Greg threw himself bodily on top of him, multiple hands grabbing bits of clothing, his legs dangling rather disconcertingly in thin air.

"That was close," Greg gave him a shaky grin as he helped him up. To Ron's horror, just inches away there was a crack on the floor of the passage, definitely wide enough to swallow him pack and all, a dark vertical drop that led to who knew where, gravel constantly dribbling into it with an ominous rattle.

"Just a thought," Greg said picking up a pebble. He dropped it down the crack and waited…and waited…and waited.

"Guys, it's been five minutes," Hermione said pointedly looking at her watch, "if it were going to hit the bottom it would have done it by now…maybe it hit the bottom very quietly," she suggested.

"Or maybe there just isn't a bottom," Greg muttered as he and Ron shared a look.

oOo

"I can't believe they'd do something so crazy," Sirius muttered as he drifted along on his broom, his feet just brushing the tops of the trees of the Forbidden Forest.

"But the acromantula ran away," Remus consoled him, "so it was all right in the end."

Sirius shook his head. "I thought Team Dungeon Crawlers was mainly Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. They're supposed to be the boring sensible ones…and I thought acromantulas ate human flesh…"

Remus was silent for a moment as he drifted by Sirius's side. "As I understand it, talking to the Headmaster, and Hagrid of course, there's been something of a war of attrition going on against the acromantula colony in the Forbidden Forest ever since your err…godson made his appearance…"

Sirius glowered.

"…and so err, yes. The acromantula, being rather intelligent and fast breeding, tend to run and hide at the sound of abnormally deep voices nowadays. A nifty piece of charms work, that voice bending charm; Flitwick will be proud."

"Disturbing, more likely!" Sirius shuddered. "Did they have to sing that particular Quidditch song, definitely not safe for school, and when that little blonde girl did that basso profundo bit…"

"Can you smell burning?" Remus interrupted him.

"Err…not really," Sirius gave the werewolf a sideways look.

"Look, ever there," Remus pointed, "it might be nothing but best to check." He angled his broom towards the thin column of smoke, Sirius trailing in his wake.

In the middle of clearing, Malcolm had made a small fire and was now busily frying some sausages, the aroma drifting up with the smoke, making Sirius's mouth water, his stomach growling in sympathy. Remus gave him an amused glance.

Deciding them done, the young Ravenclaw proceeded to cut the sausages into smaller segments, spearing a piece on his fork before offering it to the smallest and oddest looking acromantula Sirius had ever seen in his life; not that he'd seen many, mind.

Instead of the black larger-than-man-sized chitinous horror he'd come to expect, this one was barely larger than his hand, and fluffy, and pale cream with golden tiger-like stripes on its chubby abdomen, and there was something distinctly odd about its eyes too.

To his consternation, the little acromantula reached up and delicately took the piece of sausage, its front limbs gripping it firmly and nibbling at one end.

"It's albino," Sirius exclaimed.

"I don't think so," Remus said thoughtfully, "it's got pigmentation in its eyes, they're almost blue, so…leusistic, I think, is the term."

"Huh," Sirius gave this some consideration, "Mooney, do you think if I transformed into Padfoot he'd feed me sausage too?"

oOo

Unfortunately, the cave didn't stay so easy to navigate, and much to Ron's frustration, he was forced to un-stick the servo-skull for what felt like the thousandth time. "Come on, come on," he muttered at the squawking and upset thing as he tried to ease it out of the gap it had managed to lodge itself in, without getting himself impossibly stuck as well…and he had it comparatively easy compared to Greg.

"Ron," Greg's voice came from further back, "what's it like, err…"

Ron glanced as best he could over his shoulder. "There's another tight corner ahead…and it gets _really_ low…you're probably going to have to take off your helmet again."

Heartfelt swearing drifted back to him, and frankly Ron couldn't blame him. Being so much smaller, Colin and Luna weren't having much in the way of problems; even Hermione was coping. Him and Greg? Not so much…

"Erm…guys?" Colin's voice drifted back to him, "I think Luna's found something."

"Oh great", Ron grumbled to himself. That could mean anything from an interesting rock formation- "oh look, a fossilised trilobite"- to an invisible and hither unheard of invisible creature… _wonderful_.

He shoved the indignant servo-skull forward in front of him, as he eased himself around a painfully tight corner that threatened to skin his knees and elbows to the bone. Beyond, the passage corkscrewed down, and swearing, Ron eased himself down. This had better not be the "interesting" thing Luna had found. To his acute surprise, he suddenly found himself falling, landing in a painful heap on sand.

Lying there, stunned, he could only revel in all this space, _look_ , he could move his arms around freely…

"Ron," Greg's voice drifted down from the gap above, "where've you gone?"

Jerked back to reality, Ron rolled to one side, not wanting to get squashed by either Greg's pack, or Greg. "There's a cave," he shouted back gleefully.

A faint whoop of joy drifted back. "Finally!"

As Greg and Hermione extracted themselves, Ron looked around. The small cave that they had landed up in was a bubble like space, its floor covered with fine sand that rippled delicately almost as if water had flowed through here recently, and at the far end of this bubble, light filtered in; genuine sunlight and the scent of warm earth and growing things.

Hermione grabbed the back of Colin's webbing as he lunged forward, eager for outside and fresh air and space. "Sorry, sorry," Colin muttered, looking rather flustered, cringing at the glare Hermione sent his way as she crept forward.

Ron followed her, greedily drinking in the sight of actual sunlight that flooded in through the gash in the rock face. There was even hints of green things beyond…trees, Ron grinned to himself, at least bushes; he wasn't feeling picky, and either was nice, he thought as he drank in the scent of warm earth and growing things, but there was something wrong. He glanced at Hermione. "Birdsong," he mouthed, "no birdsong."

Outside in the sunlight, something shifted, scattering small stones and snapping twigs, as it muttered to itself. Edging forward, Ron peered through the foliage of the small tree that blocked the entrance. "Oh crap," he muttered.

There, prowling in the middle of the small clearing, was one of Carrow's nastier constructs. Based on the skeleton of some large animal, a horse maybe, the thing had been altered and crafted and decorated in shimmering gold until its yellowing and stained bones were virtually hidden, baleful green light filling its eye sockets, flickering as it shuffled at the ground, slowly shaking its head from side to side as it snapped at passing clouds, revealing steel shark like teeth affixed in its jaws.

Slowly creeping back, Ron didn't notice the loose rock until it was too late, and it sent him plunging face first into the clearing in a stunned heap of loose rock and shredded foliage. Dizzy and stunned, he was helpless as the head of the construct snapped round, its head lowering as it paced forward, sizing up this new target.

Ron heard a distant of cry of "fire" and the crackle of four Cadia's opening up together, pounding the construct as it attempted to spring forward. Snarling, shaking itself off, the thing lifted its head and howled its fury, a terrible screech of rage that echoed off the mountain side.

"Grenade," someone shouted, and Ron instinctively hunkered up as much as he could, breathing through his mouth, eyes tightly shut. A thunderous bang, more felt than heard rattled through him, more rocky debris showering down on him, and then silence, unnatural total silence.

Warily, he opened his eyes, suddenly aware of people clambering around him, pulling him free, brushing him off, Hermione handing him a vial of potion, her mouth moving, but he couldn't make out what she was saying at all.

"…ool grenade Ripper," Greg's voice came as if from far away.

"Ah, well," Hermione seemed almost embarrassed, "I, err, may have, err, liberated it last summer when we were doing that training exercise."

Suspicious, Ron turned groggily to look at the clearing. In its centre now sat a neat crater as of someone had taken a giant ice cream scoop to the clearing; around its perimeter lay a few odd limbs old yellowed bones encrusted with golden filigree and runes.

"Carrow's gonna be pis…" he caught a glimpse of the servo-skull, "really annoyed- I think you just destroyed one of his babies."

oOo

The sounds of screaming drew their attention, drifting up from the trees. Sirius and Remus exchanged a look, diving in among the trees without a word, dodging past old and gnarled branches and heavy foliage as they made their way towards the sound of the commotion.

Something small whizzed past Sirius's ear with a thwipp sound, leaving a burning sensation in its wake. "What the hell," he growled putting a hand up to his ear. He knew they were in Scotland, but surely the gnats hadn't got that bad…his fingers came away covered in blood. Ah…maybe not gnats then.

More of the missiles hissed through the foliage like particularly pointy rain, one burying itself in a branch near Remus's left thigh. "Arrows," the werewolf muttered as he closely inspected the fletching, "I think these are centaur made too; look, eagle feathers," he pointed out.

Well, that made sense, but it didn't explain the screaming unless maybe one of the teams had accidentally wandered into the centaurs' village…

Ducking down beneath the last of the foliage, he was just in time to see the rag tag band of Team Dungeon Crawlers running as if their lives depended on it.

"…the map didn't say centaurs…"

"…where are we running to?"

"…we're going to _die_ …"

"…shut up and keep running…"

Another volley of arrows hissed through the air, sending Sirius scrambling for cover behind a hefty chestnut tree, the students below redoubling their efforts as they tried their best to escape the attentions of the centaurs.

Among the trees in the distance, Sirius could just glimpse the equine forms of the centaurs lurking in the shadows as they saw off these intruders. He knew centaurs were as isolationist and introverted as all heck, but actively attacking students…that was new. They normally just hid…or said incomprehensible things about stars…

"Looks like the centaurs have laid an actual claim to this area," Remus said as he drifted down beside him.

They had? Sirius squinted round the lush green of the forest. There, sitting in the middle of a clearing was a post, new and green, carved to resemble a horse like figure, rearing up aggressively.

"I wonder if they met your Godson," Remus mused.

Sirius could only grimace. "He does have that sort of effect on people, doesn't he?"

They watched the centaurs for a moment as they melted back among the trees, apparently satisfied that the threat of any intruders had been seen off for now.

"Let's go see how our, err…daring adventurers are faring," Remus said as he neatly turned his broom.

"Yeah," Sirius grinned, "let's go and see if they've gone and fallen in a ditch somewhere. Oh come on," he said in the face of Remus's unimpressed stare, "they've already managed to honk off the centaurs and tangled with acromantula!" Remus just sniffed and sedately flew off in the direction of the fleeing students.

Ten minutes later, they found them collapsed with exhaustion near a small brook that flowed down from the nearby mountains into the black lake itself.

"Where are we?" one of the younger ones said as he looked round at the moss covered rocks and gnarled trees, panic beginning to show on his round face.

"Erm," the designated map-holder helpfully proclaimed as she dug the folded parchment out of a pocket, flattening it on the ground. Sirius couldn't help but notice from his perch up above that that she'd used spell-o-tape to hold the two pieces of the map together.

"There's a stream marked here," she pointed to something on the parchment too faint for Sirius to see, "so, well…I'm not sure where along it we are. Is there a stone circle nearby? There should be one somewhere…"

"Good luck finding that," Sirius muttered, Remus snorting in amusement somewhere behind him.

One of the others pulled a small device out of his back-pack. "Maybe we should find north," he suggested as he peered down at whatever-it-was intently, "that's odd…"

"Is it a muggle compass?" designated map holder demanded. "It won't work around here, there's too much natural background magic."

"Why?" the compass owner demanded. "How does that even work? The Earth's magnetic field is everywhere, so what do you mean won't work? Has someone done studies?"

"Of course, there are two in the common room library…"

"Bloody Ravenclaws," one of the others butted in, "esoteric whatever's later, right now _we are lost_. What are we going to do about it?"

"Right…well," designated map holder seemed quite put out, "we know the brook flows that way, so we could follow it, and eventually it will join with the Black Lake and also…"

"Come on," Remus said right by his ear, "they're fine. Let's go."

"I could have fallen off my broom just now you know," Sirius glared at the retreating werewolf as he tried to get his heart rate back under control.

oOo

The sun was beginning to set as Sirius and Remus slowly trailed across the treetops on their brooms alert to any sounds of danger, the early summer heat radiating off the trees.

Surely this was a little slice of heaven; Sirius sighed in contentment. On his broom, a good friend at his side, and nothing but open skies for miles around. He remembered days like this, just; it was beginning to come back to him…even the trick flying. Grinning to himself, he rolled his broom until he hung upside down, thighs gripping tightly, arms hanging down his fingers just lightly brushing the odd leaf as they trailed past.

"Really, Sirius," Remus admonished trying to hide his smile.

See, definitely a little slice of heaven, Sirius thought as several butterflies burst out of the foliage below him, one nearly blundering into his nose.

"Sirius." There was a note of warning in Remus's voice and Sirius swung himself back upright to find the translucent form of a patronus dancing across the treetops towards them.

"Who's is that's?" Sirius muttered, wary. Remus shushed him as the doe cantered to a halt in front of them, delicate and beautiful in the low sunlight, like spun glass, Sirius though; he hadn't considered this possibility before, ornaments maybe, he could fill them with tree fairies, little lights of some kind, didn't muggles have something...

"When you two have finished lazing around," Severus Snape's dulcet tones erupted from the doe at full snark, "I need you to actually check on a contestant, Team Malcolm. He's left the confines of the wards near the lower reaches of the lake…if you can find it within yourself to do so."

The doe disappeared in a shower of glistening motes of light.

"How in Merlin's name," Sirius erupted, "can _Severus_ bloody _Snape_ of all people have a patronus that pretty? I mean, _really_?" He turned to Remus in disbelief.

But Remus was frowning, obviously worried. "The lower reaches of the lake. That's where that marshy bit is," he said, wheeling his broom round.

"Well, sod." Sirius muttered as he followed. The kid was in big trouble; it wasn't just because of the terrain, but the things living in there that helped the Forbidden Forest live up to its name. Best to pull young Malcolm out, before he was eaten or something.

"This is definitely the boggy bit," Remus said peering down through the dank looking trees. As if the smell didn't give it away; Sirius shifted uncomfortably on his broom. There were red-caps and other annoying creepies down there, if the bog itself didn't get you…and it was all reminding him too much of that time in sixth year when they'd all run into this bit of the forest one Full Moon and Wormtail had nearly drowned in the mud. Considering what happened later, it was a shame they hadn't left the little shit to his fate.

Slowly reducing his height, he lowered his broom among the tangle of branches, trying to ignore the smell of rotten and fermenting vegetation. Sudden shrieking had him wheeling his broom round as a group of startled birds whirred past, calling their distress at the sudden intrusion. Seriously, and he should know, the strain this was putting on his poor old heart.

"Any joy?" Remus called down to him.

Sirius scanned the surrounding swampy ground and tangled mess of trees, looking for any sign of the stray Ravenclaw, a glint of glasses, a flash of a pale face…

"Nah," he called back, "nothing so far." He carefully pulled up his broom floating up and out into the late afternoon sunshine with a sigh of relief.

"Where can he be?" Remus sighed, looking increasingly worried.

"There's one thing we haven't tried," Sirius perked up.

"What?" Remus gave him a suspicious look. "What?"

Sirius's grin broadened as he pulled out his wand, casting a _sonorous_ charm on his throat. "TEAM MALCOLM," he bellowed, "WHERE ARE YOU?"

In the deafening silence that followed, faint shouts for help could be heard.

"SEE?" Sirius grinned triumphantly.

"Yes, yes, fine," Remus rubbed at an abused ear as he turned his broom in the direction of the shouting, "great idea Padfoot. Excellent idea, but you can take it off now."

Despite Team Malcolm's increasingly desperate cries for help, it was still another twenty minutes before they found him hidden in a small copse of lichen hung trees, desperately clinging to a branch by one hand, sunk up to his waist in a slowly bubbling pool, the odd little acromantula still with him clinging to the top of his back pack.

In his other hand he had his wand out pointed towards the other side of the copse. Looking over Sirius could see mist like beings, full of shimmering light that teased and hinted at maybe sunshine beyond, dashing and swirling in among the trees there.

"I'm so sorry, sir," Malcolm stammered, "I thought it was just light in among the trees, and then…and then when I realised what they actually were it was too late and I was stuck."

"S'alright kid," Sirius said as he considered their next move. This was going to be awkward and potentially very dirty and smelly. The pond gave a burp of gas in seeming agreement. "Better wizards than us have been lured to their doom by Will-O-the –Wisps."

oOo

The joy of fresh air and forest had worn off surprisingly quickly; about the same time he'd got bitten by what felt like the Armageddon of all horse flies. Hermione hadn't been the least bit sympathetic either, Ron grumbled to himself, and it was still itching now several hours later.

He glared at the surrounding trees and undergrowth that crowded in on the path. Practically an animal tack, they were currently strung along keeping Carrow approved distances between them, something to do with frag grenades; and if they were anything like the ones he and the others had got to play with last summer he had no intention of being anywhere near one when it went off.

At least here all he needed to do was to contend with the general creepiness of the forest, like what were those pillars of rock that loomed up among the trees? It was almost as if a giant had decided to have some fun stacking stones and then just left them, which considering this was the Forbidden Forest was entirely possible, and also made him mildly worried, and to add to his worries there were increasing numbers of them as they went along, crowding right up to the path now. He eyed a particularly tall lichen covered one suspiciously as the narrow path took him round its base.

Considering the lengths Uncle Sev had already gone to try and kill them this year he wouldn't put importing giants past him. He could almost imagine him and old Mad-Eye plotting in a corner, sniggering evilly…

"Guys," Greg's voice drifted back from the front, "think you need to see this…"

As he approached, the stone towers converged, squeezing out the trees until he was walking between bracken dotted stone walls, to where the others were crowded around something. Nervously looking up, yes he could still see sky, he sidled past Luna.

Next to the rocky path stood a battered wooden sign, its paint peeling. "Here be dragons," Ron muttered, "he hasn't…has he?"

The others looked no happier than he did.

"Anybody witnessed Professor Snape and Hagrid plotting together recently?" Hermione asked, as she stared suspiciously down the path.

"No…" Greg said slowly, "but that doesn't mean much."

"Okay," Hermione sighed, "my turn to take point." She set off slowly down the path, expression grimly determined, Cadia at the ready. Greg fell into step behind her, followed by Colin.

"Er…Luna," Ron called feeling increasingly awkward. The young witch was staring at something intently in among the bracken. "Look," she smiled up at him as he approached, "a sand dollar."

Ron gave the regular impression in the rock a bewildered look.

"…and sea shells," Luna exclaimed, "this used to be seabed you know."

"Erm…okay," Ron said, frankly not knowing what to say as Luna skipped past him down the path after the others, holding her Cadia with a distinct lack of care for gun safety.

The gulley, or whatever it was they had found themselves in soon began to fragment, the stone pillars returning as it widened but with a distinct lack of trees, bracken or even lichen, and some of the rocks had a distinctly glassy look to them as if they had been heated to incredible temperatures and then rapidly cooled.

"I don't like this," Greg muttered looking distinctly on edge, "I don't like this at all."

Frankly, Ron agreed with him. The entire place was creepy, too many places to hide and the gradually increasing mist wasn't helping things either, and then there was the smell, a little like the Twins' room after one of their stupid experiments, sort of like sulphur or something…

"What's that smell?" Colin looked around anxiously, nose wrinkled up, "it's like Bonfire Night, isn't it?"

The more magically raised looked puzzled.

"It _is_ rather like fireworks," Hermione agreed, "and I don't like this at all. I think we need to get out of here."

"Up and over?" Ron suggested.

"Back to the gully," Hermione nodded.

Which proved harder said than done, the mist continuing to rise around them, thickening until he could barely see the ground beneath his feet, the others lost in the muffling silence of the mist.

"Guys," he called squinting through the fog as best he could, nerves jangling, Cadia clutched ready.

Nothing.

Then came a rustling to his left, as if something large had brushed up against the stonework.

"Guys," he hissed, backing away.

No reply.

More rustles, the soft slow breathing of something large, a soft grumble of sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

Slowly now he sidled further away until he bumped into something hard and rough. Nearly jumping out of his skin, he found himself next to rock. Whether it was one of the stone pillars, or an actual part of the gully wall he didn't know, and frankly, at this point, didn't care either. At least he had something solid at his back.

Another growl came from his right, a muffled skittering as something sent a pebble tumbling across the ground. He sighted down his Cadia, but it was useless; all he could see was this blasted mist. There was only one thing for it. Shouldering his gun he began climbing as quickly as he could, swarming up the rocks in a mad scramble until he pulled himself up and out into late afternoon sun.

"Merlin," Ron gasped, as he breathed fresh air scented by the lake and green growing things. The mist lay before him like a carpet, punctuated every so often by the tops of the stone columns, ending approximately a hundred yards away where the lush green of the forest began, spreading out until it broke on the shores of the small mountains that surrounded Hogwarts and the Black Lake.

From his current vantage point he could even see the school, a distant fairy-tale castle, its windows glittering in the late afternoon sunshine.

"Ron," a shout came from behind him.

Turning he found Greg assisting Luna up on to the craggy top of another stone pillar, Hermione and Colin nearby. He breathed a huge sigh of relief; they were all okay. "Guys," he smiled, stuttering to a halt as their expressions turned to horror as a cloud of hot sulphur scented haze engulfed him, leaving him coughing and wheezing as he reached for his Cadia.

Eyes watering, bringing the rifle up to bare he turned, only to freeze, horrified.

Round yellow eyes stared down at him, hungry and curious and more than a little like Carrow for comfort as the juvenile dragon sniffed at him delicately, the forest of bristles around its snout twitching, mouth slightly open giving Ron an unparalled view of multiple rows of extremely sharp teeth.

He couldn't help but notice the crown of horns that sprouted up from its skull, and swooping back along its neck, before being buried in a mane of more of the bristle like hair. Some of the horns were almost as long as he was tall…maybe longer and blue, very blue, almost metallic.

The mouth opened, more gusts of hot air (Was this what it would be like if he was suddenly dropped in a volcano?) and the hint of fire at the back of an enormous gullet.

Not even thinking, Ron fired a staccato burst into that mouth. The dragon screamed its rage and pain, a piercing furious shriek that echoed off the mountains.

Lunging forwards, the dragon attempted to snare him with its teeth, but he dodged, almost slipping off the edge of the pillar as he lost his footing, slamming down painfully on one knee, but he didn't lose hold of his Cadia. Carrow would be proud. He fired again, missed, dodged, nearly fell backwards, only saving himself by grabbing the thing nearest him. Unfortunately this happened to be the dragon's chin bristles.

The dragon objected strongly, trying to shake him off as he hung on grimly, trying to improve his grip even as he was slipping.

Rearing back, the dragon spread its bat-like wings, beating the air as it bellowed its rage at the annoyance to the mountains. With a powerful thrust of its hind-legs, it climbed into the air, Ron desperately clinging on sideways to its head, half on, half off its neck, his hands buried in among the horns that thrust back from its skull.

The mountains, forest, lake, and even Hogwarts appeared at all sorts of strange angles as the dragon wheeled and soared and twisted, shaking its head all the while in an attempt to dislodge him. But as it wildly banked again, he managed to lever himself more fully onto its neck, hanging on grimly as his eyes watered from the buffeting wind, Hogwarts appearing at yet another alarming angle.

Why did people fantasize about riding dragons? This was _horrible_ and uncomfortable and something was definitely chafing but if he let go…he hung on harder…and he'd never felt so totally out of control before. Give him a nice broom any day…

Lurching sideways, he could feel the dragon twisting beneath him as it barrel-rolled, his legs slipping from their precarious grip on the giant creature's neck until he was just hanging by his hands, which were slipping no matter what he tried, and his shoulders were so desperately tired losing their strength even as he fought to regain some sense of safety…and then he was falling, twisting in the air, the lake appearing and reappearing getting ever closer…

oOo

The cold flag stones rushed up to meet him, driving the air from his lungs as they bruised his shoulders and back. He lay there, gasping for breath as he stared up at the arched and ribbed ceiling of the ante-chamber off the Great Hall. Ron groaned in despair; they were out of the Tournament and it was all his fault.

"And _that_ , young man, is what comes of tangling with dragons." Madam Pomfrey loomed over him brandishing her wand. "No visible injuries, I see. What a wonderful change, and despite your best efforts too. This damn fool tournament," she muttered darkly as she continued to gesture sharply with her wand.

Fortunately, at that moment the others appeared with a series of pops, causing Madam Pomfrey to exclaim loudly at the influx of new potential patients. Tutting loudly, she bustled off to deal severely with the rest of Team Ave Imperator.

"I'm so sorry, guys," he said as Hermione gave him a rib cracking hug, "I let you all down." He hung his head in shame.

"Er Ron," Greg said, "you just rode a great big bloody dragon…"

Madam Pomfrey cleared her throat meaningfully.

"I mean a great big dragon," Greg corrected himself, "and you're still alive. You've got nothing to be ashamed of."

Colin nodded enthusiastically. "It was so _cool_ ," he agreed. Even Luna seemed impressed.

Ron nodded slowly. He knew Greg was trying to make him feel better, but it did little to fill the yawning pit of misery he was currently inhabiting.

"Come on," Hermione said, exasperatedly grabbing him and bodily dragging him into the Great Hall, the rest of the team trailing along behind.

A wall of sound hit them as they entered, the atmosphere utterly electric as he rest of the student body, and even family members, screamed and shouted encouragement at Team Dungeon Crawlers who seemed at the moment, Ron considered the large screen which dominated the space above where the High Table normally stood, to be working their way through some sort of ruin.

A section of ceiling loaded with spikes came thundering down narrowly missing a tubby lad with glasses, a horrified gasp rolling around the Hall. Ron winced, that would have been nasty.

"Ron, RON!" The Twins collided into him, bear hugging him and slapping him on the back.

"A dragon, Ronnikins!" George (perhaps) exclaimed.

"Riding a dragon." Fred (possibly) said.

"Bet that spoils brooms for evermore!" George (maybe) shook his head sadly.

"And we'll have to work extra hard to top it too," Fred (perhaps George) nodded sagely.

"If we ever do," George (possibly Fred) said.

"Just to warn you," Fred (or maybe George) leaned forward conspiratorially, "Mum's going to be _awful_ over this. Toodle pip, old bean."

Giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder, they skipped off. To Ron's growing horror, they were right as Mum suddenly loomed into view. She looked like she'd been crying, a balled up hankie clutched in one hand as she pulled him into a hug he was never going to escape as she sobbed on his shoulder. Behind her Dad looked pale and shaken, but was managing a wobbly smile.

"I'm fine, Mum," Ron tried, "Madam Pomfrey gave me a clean bill of health and everything."

Mum looked up at him through her tears. "My little boy, you're so _brave_."

"Err Mum," Ron felt his face heating up; talk about being able to fry eggs. Not that he was unhappy, but…

"Mum," he squawked as she pulled him into another embrace, while busily extolling his virtues. Did she have to do this in public? Fortunately, Dad managed to pry her off and escort her away before he lost all feeling in his arms.

"It's not funny," he told a grinning Greg and Hermione, "it really isn't."

"Who said we're laughing?" Greg raised a quizzical eyebrow.

Shaking his head at annoying friends, Ron went and found a seat just in time for the Dungeon Crawlers to start fighting over whether something was a trap or not.

It wasn't a trap as it turned out, the false back of the fire-place sliding to one side to reveal a beautiful silver urn that was seated on top of a plinth in a small cramped room. Nervously, the team came to a decision, all reaching forward to touch it at the same time as the activation word was spoken. The screen went dark for a moment and then Team Dungeon Crawlers reappeared with a pop and a crash as they promptly fell in a tangled heap of limbs and over-stuffed knapsacks.

The sound in the hall reached a peak as they pulled themselves to their feet looking round in bewilderment, the knowledge that they had actually won slowly dawning on their faces as around them the Great Hall went wild with excitement, a stray parent even running forward to congratulate one of the team members.

Along with the Headmaster, Uncle Sev swept forward, looking very odd in dark green robes with silver buttons down the front which billowed magnificently as he walked to the front of the Hall.

The sound levels reduced as Uncle Sev glared at the gathering, leaving Ron with a distinct ringing in his ears.

"It is with great pleasure," Uncle Sev drawled, "that I can now announce the winners of the Tournament…Team Dungeon Crawler."

It was as if Ripper had let off one of her bloody stolen hand-grenades and Ron had to resist the temptation to duck under the bench, as around him students and their families shouted and screamed and ooh'ed and ahh'ed. Looking up in puzzled surprise Ron was just in time to see a fiery multihued dragon swoop pass, looking almost like a child's picture book illustration compared to the horror he'd confronted only recently. The Twins, he scowled, the bloody idiots, he was going to beat them to a pulp.

Easing himself up he was just in time to see Professor McGonagall pointing her wand at the blasted firework. It exploded to another round of excited shouting only reforming into words. Ron groaned as the word "bum" floated past; so this was what the Twins were being so mysterious about. Oh, they were in so much trouble. Apparently, Professor McGonagall had the same idea, given the angry shouting…and also Mr Black? Who turned into large black dog and hid behind the legs of Professor Lupin. Professor Lupin didn't look at all sympathetic.

Uncle Sev looked torn between utter fury and amusement; either way someone was going to suffer. "Headmaster, if you would, please."

Dumbledore stepped forward smiling into his beard. "It is with great delight that I can now present this magnificent trophy for the occasion…"

A glittering "poo" floated past, Professor Sprout swatting it away but it just turned into "willy" much to her acute annoyance.

"…to the winning team of this very first Tournament. Team Dungeon Crawler…" he lifted the trophy, presenting the dazed team leader with it, "this will of course remain in the Trophy Room, but these," he turned to accept a small stack of boxes from Uncle Sev, "these are for you to keep." He handed one to each team member shaking their hands, "the first of many, I hope, for despite my better judgment, we will be holding this again next year."

Ron brightened up at that.

"And now it is time for us to rearrange the Hall, or else we will be going to go very hungry indeed."

Polite laughter rippled through the gathered students.

Waiting to one side with the others, Ron's jaw cracked as he yawned hugely, the professors busily rearranging the Hall, reinstating the house tables. "Looks like we're going to have to wait till next year, Ripper," he said, trying to suppress another yawn.

"Maybe," Hermione hid a smile.

"Wake me up if I fall asleep in the soup, won't you?" Ron heaved a yawn.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

It was amazing how much like a vampire Faulks looked. Sirius considered the matter from his seat in the Wizengamot, as his Godson's henchman, maybe right-hand crony, continued to extol the virtues of his proposed educational reform bill.

Compared to dear Lord Prince- Sirius carefully craned his head to take in the austere figure of Augustus Prince- well, they'd both got the pale and interesting complexion and dark hair going, as well as being ridiculously thin, but Faulks actually dressed like a vampire, all in black all the time. He didn't think he'd ever seen him in anything colourful other than that Ravenclaw themed sash he tended to wear…whereas Prince was currently wearing a deep blue silver embroidered jacket and paisley waistcoat under his Wizengamot robes. He was even sporting a lace jabot and cuffs for the occasion.

Very proper, he was sure, and wouldn't Mumsie darling approve. Frankly, he was sticking to his nice comfy jeans and his favourite T-Rex t-shirt…

He muffled a yelp as his right ear exploded in pain. Turning, he gave Lady Cromwell a scowl. The elderly lady glared back, obviously unimpressed, her weapon of rolled up parchment still clutched in her claw like hand. "Concentrate, you silly boy," she hissed, "this is important."

Pouting, he slumped down in his seat.

"Black…Lord Black…"

Sirius found Faulks staring up at him one-eyed and underwhelmed. "Lord Black, if I may have your attention please. Would you be willing to answer a few questions relating to your experiences of your childhood education?"

"Erm…" Would he? Sirius considered the matter, parts of it were a rather sore topic but maybe… "Er, okay? I'd be willing." He dragged himself to his feet, trying not to fidget or just straight up run away now he was the centre of attention for what felt like the entire Wizengamot.

"Thank you." Faulks politely inclined his head. "During your pre-Hogwarts years, who was mainly responsible for your education?"

Sirius winced. "My mother...though I had tutors for things like piano and dance." And a fat lot of good it had done too.

"And at what age did you first learn to read?" Faulks was now staring at him with unnerving intensity.

He licked his lips nervously trying not to let the tidal-wave of memories of his mother's furious shrieks overwhelm him, the slap sting of her favourite willow switch and when she didn't have the energy, or was feeling particularly vindictive, the sheer pain of an over-powered stinging hex. "I was maybe…seven…eight?" he ventured.

Faulks nodded thoughtfully.

"I was always a lot better at arithmetic and magical theory," Sirius said, suddenly feeling rather defensive.

"Indeed," Faulks said, though Sirius suspected he was being patronising, "I will point out here, that within the muggle educational system of this country it is normal, and expected for a child to master the basics of reading in their fifth or even fourth year."

A ripple of whispers spread across the Wizengamot.

"Lord Black…how many childhood friends did you have?"

Sirius swallowed nervously.

"Playmates?" Faulks offered.

"I always had my brother Reggie…Regulus. We were thick as thieves before Hogwarts…but then I got sorted into Gryffindor," Sirius shrugged, trying not to show the old pain and sorrow that still haunted him. "We saw some of our cousins on a regular basis, erm…then I got to meet other children at the various balls and parties through the year…but we couldn't really play or anything with them being formal events..."

"How would you describe it overall?" Faulks asked.

He licked his lips nervously as he considered the question. "Lonely…it was very lonely…and cold."

The whispers grew to a dull murmur around him.

"Thank you, Lord Black."

Sirius sat back with a small thump. What was that all about?

"As you can see from that rather impromptu questionare," Faulks looked round the assembled Wizengamot, "loneliness and lack of social contact is a problem with our children…"

Sirius began to feel his head nod his eyes drooping as Faulks droned on. No use fighting it.

"…organised primary schooling would allow them to meet others their age and make friends outside their families before going off to Hogwarts, all while experiencing a much more systematic education. This would go some way to easing their entrance into magical education, minimizing many of the problems our children currently experience in their first years at Hogwarts. Mr Carrow…"

He actually did manage to suppress the groan as his darling godson sauntered out on to the floor in ridiculous fur trimmed robes, to stand beside Faulks, dwarfing him. Sirius gave the giant a look of supreme disgust; and he'd been about to drop off into a nice little nap too.

"…the most comprehensive survey of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry made since 1642," Carrow rumbled on, managing to be almost as boring as Faulks. "At the request of Minister Fudge, I interviewed the Professors and observed lessons in progress…"

Wow, so that's what Mooney had been raging about all those months ago, Carrow invading classrooms and stalking the professors. Bet McGonagall had loved that, he grinned to himself. Fudge had actually done something remotely constructive all on his own. Wonders would never cease, especially considering the Minister currently looked dead drunk. He leaned forward to get a good look, wary of retaliation from behind. Oh yeah, Fudgey fudge was actually slumped in his chair, dishevelled and badly dressed, his shirt front open. Madam Bones was glaring at the little man; that wasn't particularly unusual, but Dumbledore…if looks could kill…

So next question, he pondered as Carrow droned on about class sizes and student interactions, how long before they had a new Minister?

Finally, just as Sirius was considering turning into Padfoot and just running for it, Dumbledore rose to his feet. "Thank you, Mr Carrow, Acting Senior Under-Secretary Faulks. Now we shall put the Bill for Educational Reform to the vote. All those in favour?"

Sirius enthusiastically raised his wand aloft, the tip glowing gold as the count was taken; a giant yes from him to childhood friends and a little freedom from the clutches of over bearing pure-blood parents.

"All those against?"

Slumping back, Sirius was pleased to see that maybe less than a third raised their wands, mainly the staunchest of Traditionalist stick-in-the-muds, and those who just plain loathed Carrow and anything associated with him. Yep, he nodded to himself; he'd done a little good today. Maybe this whole Wizengamot lark wasn't so bad after all.

Except Dumbledore didn't dismiss them; in fact he looked increasingly stern as he stood there at his podium.

"If I could have your attention, one final notice of import...I am pleased to announce…"

No, he wasn't, Sirius thought.

"…that Mr Carrow has been given a clean bill of health by his Healers and is now ready to take up the mantle of Senior Under-Secretary to the Minister for Magic once more."

Fascinating, Sirius observed, Fudge was now wide awake and looked utterly horrified.

"Mr Carrow, if you would retake your seat, please."

Carrow rose from where he had been sitting near the public gallery and walked slowly across the floor, a hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his fur trimmed robes swirling impressively around him, a distinct swagger in his stride. But it was the smile that made Sirius's back crawl, smug and satisfied and utterly cruel. What was that ancient curse? May you live in interesting times?

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"You've got to remember, Xander," the God-Emperor said, "they aren't going to be quite what you're expecting, but they are what you're going to need."

Carrow's carefully masked glare of puzzlement and frustration spoke volumes. Sighing, the God-Emperor slung his arm around the shorter man's shoulders.

"Think of it this way," he said as Carrow continued to glare at the bewildered row of six proto-astartes (or maybe almost-marines) who stood clad in their Carrow approved uniforms of grey robes. One of them was picking his nose. "They don't have the same cultural expectations as you, so this whole waking up three feet taller must have come as something of a shock to them."

Carrow stiffened under his arm, but didn't move away.

"And then there's the fact that there's no way I could reproduce the actual series of procedures that you were put through yourself. We just don't have the technology…yet, not to mention the sheer age of the gene-seed, the symbiotic relationship with the bacteria and viruses in its growth medium it's built up, and the way it communicates with other gene seed…"

Carrow was staring at him now; okay, maybe he was rambling a little bit.

"…so yes, not the same as you exactly, but they have the same abilities, the same sturdiness, and stubbornness."

"The same but different," Carrow muttered under his breath.

"Sort of," the God-Emperor nodded, hoping it was enough.

"Thank you, my Lord," Carrow slipped out from under his arm, managing to turn the awkward manoeuvre into a bow, "I shall take it from here."

Striding in front of the line of staring maybe-marines, he glared at them until they began shifting uncomfortably.

"Greetings, Neophytes…"

"Wut?" The borderline one paused in the exploration of his left nostril to stare. Carrow ignored him utterly.

"…you have been chosen for the privilege of entering the hallowed ranks of the Adeptus Astartes…"

The incredulous stares grew.

"…you will be tested to your limits and beyond. Only those who show the utmost endurance and tenacity will survive," Carrow gave them a menacing glare, "to attain the full rank of a brother space-marine."

The dodgy nose-picking one put up a hand. "Er, 'scuse me, but what's a space marine?"

Carrow gave him the sort of look normally reserved for the terminally stupid.

Undeterred, Dodgy-nose-picker continued. "Cause see, I was robbin' your stuff so…like, you didn't call the police and let them nab me. You did this instead…isn't this what's called cruel and unusual?"

"Cruel and unusual?" Carrow looked utterly offended. " _Cruel and unusual?!"_

The God-Emperor sighed, resisting the temptation to bury his face in his hands. Maybe he should have tried harder in persuading Carrow that _he_ should talk to this band of likely lads first, because he had a feeling…

The proto-astartes suddenly scattered, dodging round Carrow as they bolted for any exit they could see, Carrow bellowing in rage as he gave chase.

Reaching out, the God-Emperor snagged one of the possible space marines as he cantered past. "I've got chocolate hob-nobs," he told the struggling man-giant.

The man-giant (and self-proclaimed burglar) paused in his struggles, and looked up at him almost hopefully.

"Maybe a sandwich too," the God-Emperor added. Possible-burglar nodded placidly, quite content to follow him as he walked to his office.

"I know this is all a shock to you," he said over his shoulder, "the changes and everything. Nobody's really explained what you're capable of now, have they?"

Possible-burglar shook his head as he eyed up the office biscuit tin.

"Tell you what," the God-Emperor smiled, "you have something to eat and then I'll take you to the gym and show you. I'm Jon by the way," he held offered a hand to shake.

" 'm Garvey," the proto-astartes said rather muffled through oatey chocolaty crumbs.

oOo

"Was it a good idea to _not_ attend the, err…hatching of the err…space marines…Astartes?" Percy asked, peering over the top of his computer monitor.

Timothy hunched his shoulders as he shuffled through yet more Aquila Ind. paperwork. Quarterly profit projections, yay! "I'm going to meet them at some point," he said after a moment of Percy's pointed staring. "I don't see why it has to be now," he huffed, "I don't know how he even managed to persuade Jon into it either…I thought he was more sensible than that."

Percy considered this for a moment. "He does things for his own reasons, doesn't he…Professor Schmidt. He's inscrutable like that."

"Well, I'd rather he'd done it somewhere else," Timothy huffed. "Oh look, English Heritage want us to get a load of stone masons in for some repairs on the Norman Keep."

"They'll never leave," Percy said as he tapped away at his computer.

Timothy gave him a half-hearted glare the young man completely ignored.

He could just see these stone masons setting up home in some of the outhouses and basically just setting up home. And if things ran true to form, they would be spending their Friday nights down the local pub getting utterly bladdered and then picking fights with the archaeologists or the gardeners, or even maybe both, if he was really lucky. Maybe they'd pick sides and…

A muffled rattle as of something or someone knocking into furniture came from the corridor outside, closely followed by soft and very deep cursing.

Timothy exchanged puzzled looks with Percy.

"That's not Carrow," Percy mouthed, palming his wand but keeping it below the level of the desktop.

Feeling distinctly put-upon, Timothy strode across the office and yanked the door open, only to come to a halt, blinking in surprise.

Standing in the corridor, looking thoroughly out of place and miserable, was an enormous man almost as tall…no, Timothy corrected himself, he really was as tall as Carrow, and almost twice as broad.

This giant stranger had apparently been trying to sidle down the corridor as quietly as possible, and not being used to robes had picked up his hems to aid his passage revealing a pair of thick, meaty and incredibly hairy legs.

 _Merlin,_ was he hairy, and very, very _blond_. In fact, a small part of Timothy's mind supplied, this was probably what an albino yeti looked like.

Timothy shook the thought away. "May I assist you in some way?" he asked, a small part of his mind spinning with worry. Looked like Carrow's babies had done a runner…so where were the rest of them? He glanced quickly down the corridor.

Nothing.

"What's the date?" the giant rumbled, barely understandable his voice was so deep. "I was supposed to be going to University." Periwinkle-blue eyes stared down at him, full of worry and distress.

Timothy ground his teeth in frustration; there were times when he could quite happily kill Carrow…and possibly Jon too.

"In," he snapped stepping back from the door.

The man-mountain hesitated.

Timothy sighed. Maybe he was being a bit too abrupt, this wasn't Carrow after all. "My apologies. You're one of Carrow's latest victims, I'm afraid. In a way, so am I, and if anyone can help you, well…" he gave a reassuring smile which apparently didn't work, considering the blonde mountain's wince. "I can at least find out about the university place for you…it better not be for Interpretive Dance or something. I'm not sure I could get that past Carrow."

The man-giant looked rather offended for a moment. "It's for engineering," he rumbled as he attempted to squash himself through the normal sized door into the office.

To Timothy's relief, Percy was being his usual efficient self, already on the phone to the R&D department and the Garage, scrounging for any details.

"They're sending me the files on the six surviving space-marines right now," Percy said, hand covering the mouth piece of the phone, "may I have your name please…then I can just put them straight onto a data-slate for you."

The man-mountain shuffled his feet anxiously as they both turned to stare at him. "M' Andrew," he rumbled, "Andrew Taylor…Mum always calls me Andy…I bet she's worried sick about me."

Timothy exchanged a look with Percy. When he got a moment, he growled to himself, he was going to find something really disgusting and put it in Carrow's bed, and then deny all knowledge.

"Here we go, records of Andrew Taylor, codename Tancred," Percy said as he handed over the data-slate to Andrew, "apparently the initial meeting with the six survivors didn't go as planned."

"Only six," Timothy sighed, feeling old, "out of twenty."

Percy nodded, looking equally grim. "According to the lab assistant I talked to, Carrow was giving them his usual spiel…"

Timothy rolled his one remaining eye.

"…and they bolted…Jon caught one, but where the others went…no idea," he shrugged.

Well, bloody buggering sod, Timothy groaned. Just what he needed, a small band of upset, disoriented, unpredictable Baby Carrows all running around the place getting up to who knew what.

"I've got a _second stomach_?" Andy exclaimed in surprise from where he'd plonked himself down in the corner of the office.

"Among other things," Timothy said, as he turned back to Percy. "There's not much we can do about this mess really. Not our responsibility."

Percy smirked.

"Best to get back to the paperwork, I suppose…I'll see if I can winkle out any more personal things for the astartes, personal items, post, that sort of thing."

Nodding, Percy went back to work on his spreadsheet.

And now for a phone marathon, Timothy sighed to himself. Several hours later, after a certain amount of creative negotiation, wheedling and outright shouting, he had managed to track down the personal belongings of all six survivors and had extracted promises that they should be carefully boxed up and returned to their owners. He'd even managed to get through to Jon himself…

"…engineering degree. I'm sorry but I fail to see your reluctance in this," Timothy glared at the phone as Jon tried explaining about technological disparities and technomancy.

"Well of course he could learn on the job, but that's not the point." Timothy closed his eye in frustration, "Andy chose to do this, it's _his_ choice, to have a thorough grounding in the fundamental basics of machines and their workings. I…"

He rolled his eyes in frustration.

"No, I don't believe his current size and appearance will be any sort of problem. I think you're underestimating the sheer ability of people to just ignore the strange and inexplicable…"

"Fine, fine." Tucking the phone under his chin Timothy rooted around in his sash for his cigarettes and lighter.

"You see my point though," he sighed as he lit a Black Russian, sidling over to the open window as he did so. No point in upsetting the English Heritage nutters any more than he had to.

"Fantastic then, we are in accord." At least something was going well today, he thought, as he hung up the phone.

"They've done something funny to my eyes," Andy announced loudly, "erm…extended the visual part of the electromagnetic spectrum…does that mean I can see heat?"

"Probably," Timothy said taking a drag of his cigarette.

"Erm, sir," Percy interrupted, jerking his head meaningfully towards the doorway.

Carrow stood there, glowering.

Andy attempted to stuff himself into the corner of the office.

"Mr Carrow, sir," Timothy gave him a toothy smile that probably came out very wrong, "I have some documents here from Aquila Ind. that I could really do with you looking over…"

Carrow jerked back. "Later, Timothy. Currently, it is imperative that I find my stray neophytes. They have…" he looked extremely awkward, embarrassed even for a moment before pulling himself together, the usual hard expression falling back into place. "They decided to _leave_ without consent. I believe I may have made an error of judgement when speaking to them initially…"

Timothy glanced towards the corner a moment where Andy seemed to be trying to hide behind the data-slate, a doomed effort.

"We did receive a phone call earlier," Timothy said, "one of your…new recruits turned up in Godric's Hollow, at the vicarage."

"Sirs," Percy butted in his hand placed over the receiver of his phone, "that was a call from the Head Gardener. Another one had turned up on the grounds, down near the river. He's with Artemis."

Carrow looked almost relieved as he retreated.

Slowly, Andy uncoiled himself from his corner, breathing out a huge sigh of relief. "Thanks," he rumbled, giving them a sheepish smile.

Carrow put back round the doorway pinning Andy with a stare. "In a moment Mr Faulks will, I'm sure, escort you down to the training hall. Some of your brothers are currently being taken through their paces by the God Emperor…Professor Schmidt…it would be to your advantage to join them." With that, he disappeared.

Andy stared after him, wide eyed. "How did he do that?" he asked.

"Preternatural hearing," Timothy sighed. "I'm sure it's on there somewhere," he waved a hand at the data-slate, "I suppose I should take you down to the training hall…as if I don't have enough to do. Come along young man, the sooner you meet everyone, the sooner you can settle in."

Reluctantly, Andy followed him.

"How old is Mr Carrow exactly," he asked as they walked past the kitchens.

"I'm not sure even he knows exactly," Timothy said, "a good guess would be around 300."

Andy froze.

"Barring accident and injury, or even plain stupidity, you're effectively immortal." Timothy looked up at him. "Frankly, I don't envy you much. I rather fancy being able to retire at some point. You? Not so lucky, I'm afraid."

oOo

Andy gazed around in wonder at the training hall with its gruesome "inspirational" frescoes, the large pit that dominated the centre of the space, and the racks of weapons that lined the walls. He visibly perked up at the sight of so many weapons. It was almost like a small child on Christmas morning spying the pile of presents under the tree.

"Go on then," Timothy said giving him an indulgent smile.

Practically skipping, Andy scampered off to lovingly stroke the astartes-sized training swords, the pole arms, some of which resembled halberds, others more spear like, and the maces and warhammers of various kinds.

Below in the pit, Jon was taking three of the new astartes through their paces, teaching the basics of handling short swords. It was amazing how much they varied, Timothy thought, as he leant against the balustrade of the fighting pit to watch.

As he had thought, Andy was just massive all over, to the point it was ridiculous. But none of the others were quite so tall, though they were almost all as broad, like inflated classical statues.

Some of them, one who he suspected was actually Diggory, wore it well, but the short hard-faced lad looked frankly ridiculous, like some sort of caricature of a heroic ideal.

"Hello, Tim," a friendly voice said next to him.

Turning he found Bernard standing next to him. He was leaning nonchalantly against the balustrade, and in complete defiance to good taste, he was sporting hairy brown socks with his sandals. Timothy always admired his sartorial audaciousness.

"Ooh, another one," he looked up with a smile, "I was having a little exploratory trip out near the new section when I found a couple of them. There's this drop and they were actually considering jumping in."

Timothy looked appalled.

"Yes," Bernard said, "they changed their minds though, when I offered to make them sausage butties."

Timothy nodded approvingly; shame that sort of tactic didn't work on Carrow.

Below them, Andy shyly joined his brother Astartes in the training pit, soon joining in the enthusiastic sword drills.

"So why does Mr Carrow need…" Bernard waved a hand towards the violence below them.

Timothy sighed. "I'm sure he feels there's some danger out there that requires specialist warriors to deal with…I don't know. Maybe he was bored."

Bernard nodded, thought for a moment. "A war…or maybe he'll manufacture a conflict for them."

Of all the things to say; Timothy glared at the smaller man utterly appalled, but the problem was he had a point. It was exactly the sort of thing Carrow was capable of. He slumped against the balustrade, feeling incredibly old, rubbing at the scars across his eye-socket. He could almost feel the grey hairs multiplying. Straightening his spine, he glared down at the giant engineered warriors as they sparred below. Whatever happened the future promised to be nothing but hair-raising.


End file.
